The Thousandth Man series
by ltcoljsheppard
Summary: The team is ambushed on a routine mission and race for the Stargate under fire. Teyla and Rodney make their escape as ordered, but on the other side, the Gate closes before John and Ronon return.
1. Chapter 1 Captives

**Series Title: The Thousandth Man series**

Story Title: Captives

Author: ltcoljsheppard Email:

Characters: Ronon and Sheppard

Rating: R/NC-17 for descriptive violence

Word Count: 15,403

Summary: The team is ambushed on a routine mission and race for the Stargate under fire. Teyla and Rodney make their escape as ordered, but on the other side, the Gate closes before John and Ronon return.

Disclaimer: Don't own the known characters you recognize or anything regarding to Stargate Atlantis. No profit is made from this story, it's just for fun and fan entertainment. No disrespect is ever intended toward Stargate characters, owners or creators.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"We shouldn't have left them!"

"You had no choice," Sam stated as calmly as she could.

"There's always a choice! He wouldn't have left us!"

"Rodney, there was nothing we could do," Teyla tried to emphasize that truth to him. "John ordered us to go through the Gate the moment it opened. We did not know they wouldn't be right behind us. No one could have predicted that."

"This has happened before!" Rodney stated, nearly in hysterics. "Remember? The last time Sheppard was left behind he was tortured by a Wraith!"

"He is not alone this time, Rodney," Teyla reminded him. "Ronon is there as well. They will look out for one another. You know that."

"If they're allowed to, yes!" he shrieked back.

"Rodney, if you don't calm down I'm going to have you remanded to the infirmary and sedated," Sam informed him. Her tone was compassionate, but firm with her authority to do as she stated.

She understood his concerns completely and even empathized a great deal. Rodney had never been a very well-liked person, not as a child, a young man, or even in more recent years. Then he'd met John Sheppard in the most bizarre way imaginable and strangely enough the odd couple had formed an interesting bond of friendship.

For all intents and purposes, John Sheppard was probably the best friend Rodney McKay had ever had in his whole life. He admired and even respected John and that was a huge step in humility for the brilliant scientist. He even looked up to Sheppard in a way he'd given up on others. Rodney seemed to need John's approval and trust as much as he needed air and Sam couldn't ignore that bond, or its importance to McKay, or to his existence as a newly emerging social human being.

Then Ronon came along and, as much as Rodney had tried to dislike the man, fearing that his inclusion to the team would threaten his own status as Sheppard's friend, Rodney couldn't help liking him himself. Ronon had, so often, come to his protection and aid, even at great risk to himself. Just as Sheppard had always been, Ronon was there for him too, and McKay found himself as part of the threesome of "boys", as Colonel Carter often referred to them. He finally belonged somewhere and was accepted by... well, by the "jocks", the popular kids in school, who wouldn't have given him the time of day a couple of decades ago, were now his two best friends.

He was accepted by them and they liked him despite his incessant whining and arrogant rudeness. Despite it? Or in spite of it? he wondered and that only made him grieve more. They were his friends. He belonged with them.

Rodney blinked at Sam trying to comprehend her warning and Teyla stepped over to him to rest a hand upon his shoulder. He looked to her with grief-stricken eyes that conveyed his fear of the worst. At the moment, his own natural propensity toward being the expected messenger of doom felt entirely overwhelming.

He took a breath and then moved around the conference table to drop into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands as he tried to regain a semblance of control. Teyla turned to look at Sam while Major Lorne and his team stood quietly by with due respect.

Colonel Carter blew out a deep breath and turned to Lorne and the waiting Marines. They were all kitted out and heavily armed and she could tell that although they appeared stoic and calm, they were actually impatient to go after their own.

"Major?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Evan replied, his tone and expression assured her that they were indeed ready to move out.

"You have a 'Go'. Bring them home."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I'm going too!" Rodney exclaimed jumping to his feet.

"No you're not, McKay," Carter countered with a hint of astonishment in her tone. "You're not going back there until you've calmed down and are thinking clearly again." She turned back to Lorne with a nod, "You're dismissed, Major."

Rodney was taken aback by that, he felt as though he was being completely logical here. It was Sam's call though so he held his tongue. The best he could do now is wait and see if the rescue team returned with their missing friends and if they didn't he'd be under control enough to be allowed to join the second wave of searchers.

The Combat Search and Rescue unit turned and followed Lorne down to the activating Stargate. The sounds of the dialing sequence, and the resulting swoosh as the wormhole established a connection again with the planet designated P6M-421, normally brought with it a sense of excitement and wonder of the unknown. Now, as Sam and Teyla exchanged concerned looks, its familiar activation brought only fear.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~

The ambush had been swift and silent and given the almost monotonous routine of the mission itself, was totally unexpected. The team was on its way back to the Gate from the ruins that turned out to be totally worthless as far as giving any insight into what it had been used for, when they came under fire. The team had taken appropriate cover and returned fire on the Matullan soldiers.

No one was able to get a visual of their assailants and all attempts to communicate with them had come up empty. So, not knowing the numbers they were up against or how long their ammo would last, Sheppard had made the decision to escape the situation as originally planned. Ronon of course disapproved the decision, so vehemently in fact, that John had to forcefully order him to shut up about it.

The two men laid down cover fire for Teyla and McKay as the pair ran for the DHD. Teyla covered Rodney from that position as he huddled as close to the device as possible, trying to make himself the smallest of targets as he dialed the way home. When the wormhole opened Sheppard ordered them to move. Rodney had turned to protest, but Teyla grabbed his vest and pulled him toward their egress as she too fired behind them into the surrounding woods to keep their enemies' heads down long enough to get the civilian scientist to safety.

Having lost two of their intended targets, the suppressing fire escalated to the point where Sheppard and Dex had to hit the dirt, foregoing any return fire. From their position behind the tree line, they had a good view of the Gate and a clear path to it. If they stayed low until they made it to the edge of the clearing, they just might be able to clear the distance before their attackers realized they were directing their fire toward nothing.

Sheppard finally convinced Ronon that conditions were not prime for a sustained counter attack and the two men made their way along the thick underbrush toward the active Gate. Once they reached the edge of the clearing they exchanged a look and Sheppard gave the signal to move out.

The two men sprinted across the field and the plan had worked. The enemy ceased firing as they noticed their surprise move and turned toward them to redirect their fire. However, the Stargate, having detected no new material entering for transport, closed itself down just as John and Ronon closed in on it. Only a few yards away, they skidded to a halt and stared at the dormant Gate and were quickly surrounded by a heavily armed troupe of militants.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Sheppard kicked himself silently for getting himself captured again. The worst part about it this time though was that he wasn't alone in this. One of his teammates had been taken prisoner with him and, even though Ronon was more than capable of taking care of himself and pretty much anyone else who came along, he was still John's responsibility.

That was his only thought as he was dragged, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back. Sheppard figured he was either taller than his captors or he somehow frightened them enough, for whatever reason, that they refused to allow him to get his feet under him. Therefore he was literally being dragged by his upper arms and that alone hurt.

He couldn't figure out why people thought it was easy to drag someone in this position. It never appeared to be easy or comfortable for the grunts ordered to do the dragging and for him it was quite painful having his weight bearing down on gripping fingers trying to hold him upright. He grunted under the gag as he felt their fingernails crushing his biceps and piercing blood vessels. That's gonna leave a mark, he allowed himself to think briefly.

He turned his head from side to side discreetly, knowing that his escorts were focused on other things at the moment and wouldn't really notice his attempts to identify his surroundings. The stuffy air and musty smells indicated he was inside a structure and most likely one either built underground or was simply in a sub-level of one that stood above ground. The packed dirt beneath their feet told him that it was a place that saw enough foot traffic and the sounds from different directions of heavy doors opening and closing told him this place was probably regularly used for this type of activity. It certainly conjured up an image of an underground prison, or worse... a dungeon?

Great, he thought, mercenaries maybe, or just well-trained and misguided militants? 

The sound of a large latch being lifted and a heavy door being pulled aside in front of him made John raise his head as if to see it. But all he could see was black from the blindfold that was tied tight around his head, so tight in fact that he was starting to get a bit of a headache from the pressure of it. He wondered if Ronon was behind him, or in front of him, although he didn't pick up any other sounds to indicate that another prisoner was being brought down here with him.

That was either really good or really, really bad.

That thought, however, was erased from his mind as he was thrown roughly to the ground. With his hands tied behind his back and unable to see in order to judge the distance, Sheppard's chest and face were slammed into the ground as a result of not just being dropped, but shoved forward as he fell.

He struggled for air, breathing heavily through his nose lying face down in the dirt. His exhaled breaths blew light clouds of dust away from his face, only to have his deep inhalations suck it back in. He turned his head reflexively away from the choking cloud. Writhing on the ground and pushing with his feet to turn over, John propped himself up on his side searching for the cleaner air above him.

No one made an attempt to talk to him although he could hear voices nearby whispering. The sounds came from the direction of his feet so he knew they were standing in or near the door he'd just been thrown through. They were speaking the same language he did so Sheppard got the gist of their brief conversation even though he didn't hear most of the words. He'd been in this position before, sadly enough, in a place far, far away from here.

That thought sent images racing through Sheppard's head and he felt a sense of panic rise up inside him. Not a panic resulting from knowing what was probably going to happen from here, but a panic over being blindfolded through it. John realized suddenly, due to the images of memories that just raced through his mind, in vivid detail, that if he couldn't ground himself in the here and now .... No, he had to.

He'd simply have to keep reminding himself over and over again that he was not in Afghanistan or Iraq anymore. He was someplace far, far away from there. It felt like Iraq though and it had that smell of the damp caves where the Taliban hid in the desert mountains of Kabul... but this wasn't there. His heart bounded in his chest as he tried to reign in that particular personal terror.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon waited for the sounds outside the door to settle before turning all of his sense toward the interior of the room. He lowered his head as if in meditation and stretched out with all the senses of a skilled tracker. He listened for the smallest of movements, for the wispy sounds a person made when they simply breathed in and out, for the whisper of fabric as someone moved no matter how silently. There was none of that inside the room with him and Ronon visibly relaxed for a moment to catch his breath.

He knew even before he got thrown to the ground and locked in that Sheppard wasn't with him. That thought didn't sit well with the Satedan. Where was his friend? What were they doing to him? That thought made Ronon growl. He struggled a moment to sit up and then spun himself up onto his knees and then got to his feet.

His feet weren't bound, which was good for him, but he found that rather odd. He was just as deadly with his feet as he was with his hands but he'd keep that little tidbit to himself for now. Carefully, Ronon stretched out one leg, sweeping the floor in front of him with his foot before moving forward. He did this until he found the wall, then he turned his back to it to feel the structure with his hands bound behind his back and then moved to his right.

Following the wall all the way around the room, Ronon determined its size to be about fifteen by twenty feet or so. The only obstacle he'd run into as he traversed the outer edges of the room was the small bed pushed up against the back wall. He simply stepped up onto it and stretched his neck, sniffing for fresh air as if from a window. It always seemed that prison beds were always pushed up beneath a small window, didn't it? However he found no fresh air entering the room, which meant it was probably underground or an interior room of a larger building. Once he'd determined his immediate surroundings there was nothing else to do but wait.

Hours passed by as Ronon paced back and forth inside the room before moving to the back wall. Mentally he felt worn down, but physically he was wired and ready for a fight and those two conditions didn't work well together. He moved to the back corner and put his back to it, resting his weight into the sharp angles and tapped the back of his head lightly against the wall.

He'd moved around the room for so long Ronon literally had a mental image of its layout and could walk the room in any direction, or from one point to another, without having to see it at all. Now he simply passed the time standing with his back to the corner and waited.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Sheppard woke with a groan behind the gag, his body aching from the stiffness in his muscles and when he tried to open his eyes, he found them to be bound too. Confusion set in for a brief moment as he felt the weight across his eyes and then the realization he couldn't move with ease reminded him of his predicament.

He'd fallen asleep lying there on the cold ground, but he wasn't sure when that had happened. Had it been only a few minutes or had hours gone by? He lifted his head to listen as the sounds of activity beyond the door became prevalent and then the latch disengaged with a loud clang that made him start a bit.

The next thing John felt were hands grabbing at his arms and roughly pulling him off the ground. He tried to vocalize around the gag, but the sound only came across as a muffled grunt and he batted away the intruding image of the Taliban soldiers who'd dragged him off the frozen ground in much the same way after his chopper was shot out from under him.

That was years ago though, he reminded himself. It wasn't now. Keep thinking Atlantis, he told himself. Great City of Atlantis. That thought would keep him lucid, would keep him from losing himself in memories he'd never shared with anyone else... well, except the shrinks in Balad and only then because they made him talk about it if he ever hoped to get his wings back and get back in the air.

The sky. The bright blue sky. His favorite place in the world, any world, to be. Flying. Join the Air Force. Step Into the Blue. Oh yeah. This is where he kept his thoughts, these were safe thoughts, friendly thoughts. He held onto these thoughts as if they alone gave him life.

The two men dragging him down the corridors turned left and right so many times that John lost count and realized he'd lost all his bearings from earlier. He had no idea if Ronon was here with him or had been freed or killed and, once again, he lost that thought when he was dragged into a room where voices suddenly ceased as he was brought in.

He tried to verbalize again, but the piece of cloth that gagged him was tied so tightly that the corners of his mouth were sore and felt chafed. He could barely swallow with his mouth wedged open and the cloth was too thick to chomp down on with his teeth. The best he could do was move the back of his tongue to try to form words but he was still unsuccessful.

Sheppard quieted and tried to listen for the voices whispering, perhaps he could pick up an idea of what they wanted and who they were. He had an idea that it wasn't the Genii this time and it wasn't the Wraith. Or not solely the Wraith if the hands that touched him and the voices he had heard were any indication.

He felt numerous hands propping him up as someone untied his hands at his back. Immediately aware of the relief of pressure on his abraded wrists, Sheppard had barely noted the sensation before his arms were thrust above his head. Instinctively, he turned his face upward as if to see, but he was still blinded by the cloth over his eyes. He felt rough hands shackle his wrists up high, hands that apparently had done this many times and were now skilled at the maneuver.

Once his wrists were bound above his head, the many hands on him were gone. Sheppard shifted his feet into a wider stance as he determined his new position and his needs for maintaining balance. Then all he could hear was the deafening sound of his own breaths in the silence that followed. They sounded like panicked breaths to him. His heart bounded in his chest, which only he would detect, but his heaving chest and panting breaths were clearly identifiable as a result of adrenaline pushing through his system. At the moment, he was a dangerous animal and his captors kept their distance.

Sheppard hung there by his wrists for what seemed like a long time before someone in the room moved. His breath froze in his lungs as primal instincts set in; blinded and bound, his sense of hearing was all he had and he had to quiet his own movements in order to hear his enemy's approach. John's head turned to face the direction of the sound and he stilled.

As the man moved across the floor in front of him, John imagined the man's size and could visualize that he was looking at his captive closely as he slowly moved in front of him. Only John's head moved to follow the man's steps, the rest of his body had instinctively stilled as if coiled for a strike.

"You are Alteran," a masculine voice stated. Sheppard was pretty sure it was the man who'd moved in front of him since the voice came from the same spot that he was now facing.

Sheppard lifted his head to indicate he was listening, but he said nothing. He didn't understand the statement. Was it an accusation or just an observation? He'd heard that word before, he was sure of it. Once again, John reprimanded himself for not paying closer attention when the eggheads back in Atlantis talked about "stuff".

"You are Alteran," the voice repeated, but this time it was close. The man, his interrogator, had stepped up to him as his thoughts had drifted. He could feel the man's breath on his face, so close. Sheppard shook his head slightly and tried to speak, but all he was able to produce was a retarded sounding mumble around the choking gag. The message came across loud and clear though as the captive indicated he didn't know what he was talking about.

"Don't try to deny it," the interrogator told him. "We saw you and your friends at the ruins. You... and the man who got away... are of the Ancestors. Those who had brought a great plague down amongst the people of this galaxy and then fled to save themselves, leaving the rest of us - leaving their human pets - alone to face the scourge they left behind."

Sheppard shook his head, mumbling around the gag. They blamed him for leaving them to the mercy of the Wraith so many centuries ago. He stood up taller, his hands grasping the chains that held his arms at an uncomfortable angle and tried to tell the men present he is not an Ancient.

"We saw you," the man stated. "We saw you and the other one using Alteran technology."

Oh crap, John thought, deflating a bit. Then he straightened again, shaking his head and vocalizing nonsense around the gag in the hopes it would be removed so they could talk this out.

"You carry the blood of the Ancestors. You are Alteran."

John shook his head again and then a surge of rage exploded inside him. He was being punished and accused of crimes that may or may not have taken place 10,000 years before he was even born. He roared at the unseen man around the gag and gripped the chains hard, lifting himself off the floor and kicking out in the direction of his interrogator.

Sheppard knew that ignorance was much more blissful than knowledge. He'd been in this type of situation before and he knew what to expect. Frankly, it was like that child's game, you know the one, where you're supposed to keep your hand out waiting for it to get smacked. After a while you twitched at the simple thought of being smacked, even though your opponent hadn't moved.

That was this situation and knowing what sorts of tortures came with being chained upright in the middle of a room made John react. He kicked out blindly and was immediately beaten from all directions with clubs of some kind. They landed hard blows on his chest and back, his thighs and belly.

He fought back futilely, until exhaustion forced him to stop. He hung there by his wrists, the metal bands digging into his flesh, which was now red and raw and burned. The cold metal shackles actually lent a bit of relief even though they were the primary cause of the injury.

Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back hard, hot breath washing over his face as someone demanded things he couldn't hear. Sheppard gasped for air around the gag blocking his airway, his tongue and throat were parched from being kept open to the drying air and unable to swallow. Thirst was a quick and easy form of discomfort that would rapidly turn torturous, he knew that too well.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The door to the room was pulled open and Ronon looked up from where he was sitting in the far corner. He'd had his bindings and blindfold removed a few hours ago and now a man stepped inside warily then relaxed a bit when he saw the larger man stationed in the furthest corner of the cell. He was holding a tray and he turned toward Ronon then crouched down slowly to set the tray on the floor.

"Food," the guard offered.

"Where's my friend?" Ronon growled softly as he glared at the man from under his furrowed brow.

The guard stood back up slowly and simply looked at Ronon for a moment. Ronon looked back without moving. He sat with his back to the wall, his knees drawn up in front of him and his forearms rested on his knees. He held his head low and pinned the man with a green-eyed glare.

"He's not far," the guard informed him just as quietly. "You're not like him."

"What does that mean?" Ronon asked pointedly.

"You're not Alteran."

"What?" Ronon asked, raising his head a bit.

"You're not of the same blood as the Ancestors. The Alterans," the guard ventured.

Ronon's brow furrowed and he slowly moved his arms, pressing his hands against the wall he rested on and pushed himself to his feet. The guard stiffened a bit, alert to the large man's new position he slowly dropped his hand to the pistol at his hip. Ronon watched the move silently, not missing a thing.

"No, I'm not," he offered. "Neither is my friend."

The guard cocked his head slightly. "We know that's not true," he informed the prisoner.

"What does that mean?" Ronon asked, taking a step forward.

"We saw him using the tools of the Ancestors. We know that only the Ancestors and their descendants are capable of using their technology."

"So what if he is? What would it matter?"

"The Alterans set loose upon this galaxy a great scourge. They released the Wraith upon us and then fled to save themselves. They left us to the mercies of those who have none. He will pay for that crime."

Ronon's anger shifted and his eyes lost some of their rage. It was replaced by concern and fear.

"He's not an Ancient!" Ronon insisted, then corrected himself when the guard looked confused. "He's not an Alteran! He's not even from here."

"Neither are you," the guard reminded him. "What planet is your home?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Sateda was my home," Ronon told him and the guard nodded somberly. "My friend... he's not from here. He's from a place far away, a planet called Earth."

"Erth?" the guard echoed, his eyes lighting up a bit. "Yes, that's the name of the world the Alterans escaped to. Erth. Our parents and forefathers have passed down the stories... the legends about the great planet called Erth, in a galaxy far from here. The Alterans went there tens of thousands of years ago, intending to return someday."

"I'm telling you, you're wrong," Ronon insisted taking a large step toward the guard who immediately stepped back and drew his gun. "His people are referred to as the Tau'ri... or Terrans."

"Yes, Terans... Alterans," the guard agreed, twisting the two words to comply with the belief they'd held onto for so long.

"No!" Ronon shouted. "You're wrong! Where is he? I want to see him! What are you doing to him?" The great Satedan stormed forward and the guard back pedaled out the door. Two others slammed the door and locked him in but that didn't stop Ronon from pounding two meaty fists against the thick wood. "If you hurt him, I will kill you!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After six hours of searching, the sun began to set on the alien world casting elongated shadows over the terrain. Lorne ordered the six search teams to rendezvous back at the 'Gate and when the last of them had finally made it to the rally point it was nearly dark. They'd painstakingly searched an area approximately three miles in diameter and had come up with nothing but a broken trail through the forest that suddenly ended at the base of a rocky foothill.

"That's it for tonight," Lorne addressed the somber group. He knew what every one of them was feeling as each man pinned him with a serious stare. "I know what you're all thinking. I feel the same way," the Major assured them all. "There's nothing more we can do tonight. We'll come back in the morning with Jumpers."

The Marines exchanged looks and relaxed their postures. They didn't like it but they had to concede that it was for the best. They had no idea in which direction their people had been taken and they didn't know the terrain on foot at all, much less trying to traverse it in the dark.

"Dial the Gate," he told one young Marine.

The others kept an eye out around the immediate area, alert to the fact that this is where the last ambush had taken place. Once the vortex settled, Lorne sent his IDC and the rescue teams returned home.

* ~ * ~ *

Colonel Carter met them at the bottom of the main staircase, accompanied by Teyla and Dr. McKay whose expression dropped significantly when he realized they'd come back empty-handed.

"Where are they?" he asked, disbelief and a hint of panic surfacing in the rising pitch of his voice.

Lorne looked at him for a moment then turned toward Sam to give his answer. "We found no sign of them, Ma'am. It's nearly nightfall now, impossible to continue in the dark. We don't know the terrain or the layout, I figure it's better to wait 'til morning and go back with Jumpers to assist the search."

That wasn't the news they'd hoped for and Colonel Carter sighed heavily then nodded. She agreed with Evan's tactical decision and backed him up on it publicly. "Okay, Major, good call. We'll resume the search in the morning. Assembly at 0630, we'll have a last minute briefing if needed at that time. Thank you, gentlemen."

Lorne dismissed the troops and he accompanied Carter to her office. He really didn't want to do this, but, until Lt. Colonel Sheppard was found or returned on his own, Major Lorne had to assume his position as Second-in-Command.

Teyla and Rodney chose to go somewhere else, to sit quietly together and, most likely, spend a sleepless night in vigil for their lost friends. A few hours before dawn, Rodney had exhausted himself to the point where he simply crashed at the table in the mess hall. Teyla patted his hand lightly and looked out over the ocean from their terrace table, the ocean breeze fluttered Rodney's hair lightly as he snored, his arm pillowing his head atop the table.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon had no idea how long they'd been held so far, but he retained enough of his awareness of passing time from many years on the run from the Wraith, and many hours holed up in the dark in order to gain some sleep, to know that it was at least the following day's night.

He hadn't heard or seen any sign of Sheppard since they were blindfolded and separated. The guard had said John wasn't far away... then how come he couldn't hear him? Even Sheppard would've been calling out for him by now, just as Ronon had spent a good hour doing earlier today and most of last night. That action only succeeded in irritating the guards outside his door who finally got fed up enough to shut him up.

When Ronon realized they were about to open the door, he prepared himself to overpower them and run. Not to escape though, no. He wasn't leaving this place without Sheppard. He had to find him first. But when the door swung open, Ronon hadn't been expecting to be hit by tiny metal claws that sent volts of electricity through his body.

He'd ended up convulsing on the floor and then one of them ordered him to be quiet from here on and emphasizing the order with a strike to his head with a blunt weapon. Before that, he'd refused to eat any of the food they'd brought for him throughout the day and he hadn't taken advantage of the time to sleep. So, he was pretty worn out by the time the offensive came and the sudden jolts and heavy slug to his head, sent him into darkness.

* ~ * ~ *

When Ronon came to, hours later, still lying in a heap on the floor, he cursed himself. None of that should've taken him down so easily and he realized that his refusal to sleep and eat was going to end up hurting their chances to escape.

He had no idea where Sheppard was and what condition he'd be in when he finally found him, so Ronon decided he needed to stay strong for both of them. He knew that John would do the same.

With a groan, Ronon slowly rolled onto his side, taking a moment to play his fingers across his hairline to find a crusty patch of dried blood. He grunted, satisfied that the knot on his head had taken care of itself for the moment, and stretched out a hand reaching for the bowl still sitting on the tray on the floor nearby.

He looked at the contents of it closely then sniffed it. If they wanted him dead or drugged there was certainly easier ways to do both by force. Ronon figured out by this time that he wasn't their intended target so he figured he was pretty safe unless he caused them trouble. Trouble, hnh, he thought, they have no idea what kind of trouble they're in. 

Foregoing another arm stretch to gather the spoon that had been supplied, Ronon simply dug into the gruel with his hand. Using his fingers as a spoon, he shoveled the cold porridge-type meal into his mouth. He had to force himself to swallow it since its consistency was more like a thick paste now, but he got it all down. Then he moved across the floor on his butt, staring at the wooden cup still sitting on the tray. Lifting it, Ronon sniffed at it then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

It had no odor and he couldn't tell if it had color to it due to the dark interior of the mug. With a shrug he took the chance and sipped at it. Water.

He guzzled the entire cup quickly to slake his growing thirst.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They'd left one man to guard the prisoner while the others took a few hours to get some needed sleep. His name was Ujaal and he sat at the table in the corner playing a game that was probably similar to Solitaire on Earth, but it was played with a pitted board and some shiny smooth stones. Once in a while Ujaal glanced up at the man hanging by his arms in the center of the room and wondered if he was unconscious or asleep.

He doubted anyone could simply sleep in that position, with all his body weight pulling on his wrists. It was hardly a comfortable position, especially after two days already. They'd beaten this man so badly that even the metal bands cutting into his wrists didn't stir him. Blood ran down both arms and his face was swollen, bruised and bleeding.

Just as Ujaal pulled his eyes away from the prisoner to focus on his game, a loud noise, an unusual popping sound, made his head snap up. He barely had time to wonder what had made the sound when the prisoner's head came up sharply and his body stiffened.

Sheppard howled around the soggy gag, his blood curdling screams muffled by the cloth. One shoulder had popped out of its socket under the pressure of his full weight bearing down on them. He tried to put his weight down on his legs to relieve his shoulders of the weight but it was too late.

Ujaal stood up so fast that he knocked his chair backward onto the floor. He'd never been a part of such a thing before and was having doubts that, regardless of what the Alterans had done thousands of years ago, this would right that wrong.

His heart pounded in his chest as he carefully stepped closer to the prisoner. He could see which shoulder had dislocated and he winced in sympathy for the man. Just as Ujaal reached up, wanting to ease the man's pain, but not certain how he could with him stretched out in this manner, the door opened.

"Don't touch him!" came the voice that John recognized.

"Marek... he... he..." Ujaal stammered.

"He's fine just as he is," the interrogator, now known as Marek, informed the young guard. "You can leave now, Ujaal. We'll take it from here."

John tried to swallow against a parched throat and found that not only could he not swallow but his brain seemed to have forgotten the signals. He couldn't even coordinate his tongue and throat to even make a decent attempt at it. He gasped for air around the offending rag. Even raising his head in order to over extend his neck and open his airway didn't help alleviate the sensation of suffocation.

He was pretty sure he didn't need the blindfold anymore because both his eyes felt grotesquely swollen shut at this point. John was sure they'd cracked his skull with one of the clubs they used on him through the night and now he had a dislocated shoulder.

As thirsty as he was, painfully so even, Sheppard found that he wasn't the least bit hungry and knew it was his own body's way of keeping him from craving the food that would most likely make him sick anyway. Getting sick at this point would only serve to sap his remaining strength if he were to become violently ill.

"So," Marek began with a casual tone in his voice, "shall we begin again?"

John tried to keep his head up, but he was so weak it simply fell forward. He could barely concentrate on simply breathing through the pain and that's what he focused on, breathing in and breathing out.

In... and out. In. Out.

"Where is the new Alteran settlement? We know you are not here alone. We saw another with you and he escaped. Where are the rest of your people?"

Sheppard simply shook his head as it hung forward. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back again and he yelled out in pain as the ligaments in his shoulder tore violently with the rough move. The tight fist in his hair pulling him backward made it nearly impossible to breathe at all and John struggled instinctively to throw him off but the surge of energy quickly dissipated.

"You must be thirsty," Marek's voice came to him as if the man was talking under water.

Oh god, he'd been through this before. John's brain could only repeat one word that reverberated through the chaos inside his own mind. No. No, no, no, no, nooooo... 

His brain remembered too and flashed vivid images through his mind of a desert prison a long time ago. He knew this game, knew it too well. John knew how to play it now, but that didn't mean it would be fun.

Marek was close enough now to whisper in his ear, like a lover he spoke softly but his words were not friendly and his intentions were cruel. "Thirsty? Let me help you drink."

John tried to pull his head forward, but the fist in his hair only tightened to hold his face upward. The gag in his teeth kept his mouth open and the best he could do was try to close his throat with the back of his tongue to keep from drowning.

Marek slowly poured a full pitcher of water over John's face. The prisoner gurgled and spewed the water out, trying to gasp for air as the water streamed back into his throat. He tried to breathe through his nose but the beatings had left it bleeding freely. So now John realized he would either suffocate or drown.

After an eternity the water flow ceased and John's lungs fought to breathe. Suddenly his head was released and he threw himself forward, despite the torn shoulder he choked up water from his lungs and then vomited whatever he'd swallowed in desperation to not breathe it in.

His lungs burned and the fluid now in them made breathing even more difficult. His abdomen hurt with the wrenching muscles, being unable to double over as they insisted he do. They left him hanging there for a few minutes, letting him take stock of his injuries and his predicament.

"You want this to end?" Marek finally asked. The prisoner simply hung there breathing heavily. "This can end now... all you have to do is tell me where the others of your kind are."

That infuriated Sheppard. He wanted to rage at the man but all he could manage was to shake his head no. He wouldn't give up his people, his friends. Never. Not to save himself. If he even considered it, all he had to do was imagine Rodney in this position, or Lorne, or Miko... All he could do was shout out in defiance through the gag and shake his head. 

Never!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Major Lorne powered up Jumper Two again in the bay above the Gateroom and looked out the windscreen at Jumper Six across the way where Sgt. Stackhouse powered up his own ride. Day two of the search for their missing men had yielded nothing once more, perhaps today they'd get lucky.

Evan looked to his left out the main view port to see Jumper One sitting dark and idle a few yards away. Jumper One and Jumper Three were Colonel Sheppard's two favorite ships, while Lorne preferred Two and Four and Stackhouse always chose Six.

The Jumpers were a marvelous piece of Ancient technology and a pilot's dream. Cylindrical in shape, they were aerodynamically designed specifically to fit through a Stargate. They contained drive pods on each side of the craft's body down the length of the fuselage and the pods have to be retracted into the vehicle's sides in order to fit through the Gate.

The ships also carried weaponry in the form of drone missiles, which were launched simply through the mental interface each piece of technology used to bond with the ATA gene carriers. It was because of this particular interface that the Jumper pilots found themselves favoring certain ships over another. It was as if the shuttle and the pilot literally bonded to one another over time through this interfacing technology.

Though the Puddle Jumpers could be piloted by utilizing the hand controls, they might've been provided simply as a redundant system, since the aircraft did interface with the mind of its pilot. The Heads-Up Display, which reveals all sorts of information to the pilot and crew, including life signs and geographical readouts, as well as other relevant equipment and systems on board, can be immediately put at a pilot's disposal simply through a thought command.

Teyla sat beside Lorne in the co-pilot's seat and offered Rodney a smile through the main view port as he stared back at her wide-eyed and concerned from his seat beside Stackhouse. As the Jumpers' pilots activated the engines and the inertial dampeners, the two ships were boarded by ten Marines each to act as search and rescue or recovery personnel in the event their two missing people were located.

Once the rear hatches of the vehicles were raised and secured, Lorne radioed Flight Control and received the 'clear for go' reply. He exchanged a glance with Teyla and offered her a thin smile as he reached between their seats to activate the console that would dial the Gate below them. Teyla understood his wish to show optimism but she found herself wary of too much of it as well.

The team had come under significant heavy fire and it was only because of Ronon and John's sacrifice that she and Rodney had made it back to Atlantis safely. The conditions in which they'd last seen their friends did not bode well for their return unharmed, she was sure.

As the Jumper lifted off its base, the center bay door panels located in the ceiling above the Gate room twisted and retracted in a circular fashion revealing the hovering ship to onlookers below. Jumper Two descended slowly, lining itself up with the Gate portal automatically and waited for its command to proceed.

Colonel Carter's voice came over their headsets with a final acknowledgement. "Bring them home, Major."

"Yes Ma'am," he replied. That request had been made every day since their men were lost to them and each day he replied with confidence that he would find them. With that, Jumper Two accelerated and shot through the Great Ring as Jumper Six descended from the bay above.

"We'll find them, Sam," Dr. McKay told her, his voice shaky and unsure.

"Good luck, Rodney," she replied and the second ship disappeared through the shimmering pool.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marek stepped back from the prisoner and considered the man hanging from the chains. Either he was the most stubborn man the interrogator had ever met or the most loyal. Stepping backward, he kept his eyes on his captive, who simply hung limp and semi-conscious in front of him.

"You are a stubborn one, aren't you?" Marek mentioned and looked to the other men positioned around the room who looked back at him silently.

Sighing heavily, he turned to the small table where Ujaal had sat in watch earlier and poured himself a glass of water. Sheppard lifted his head slightly at the sound of the pouring liquid but his action went unnoticed. He was too weak though and couldn't hold it there, a few seconds later his head dropped forward again.

After sating his own thirst, Marek turned around to face him again. He simply looked over his captive from head to toe, then nodded to one of the men nearby. "Remove his shirt," he ordered.

Sheppard heard and understood, but didn't have much left in him. His whole body hurt, he couldn't see it but he had intense bruising all over his chest and back, he had a dislocated shoulder and his face was swollen and bleeding. A gash on his left cheek bled freely and his bottom lip was split open. His eyes hurt so bad and were swelled shut. John had felt warm liquid flow between the closed eyelids of his left eye earlier and now, even beneath the blindfold, he couldn't open that eye since it was now coated with dried blood.

He could barely keep enough of his weight on his feet to keep the stress off his arms, his muscles shook with exhaustion and it hurt to even breathe or to swallow. The gag holding his mouth open was painfully tight and had caused drying and chafing at the corners of his mouth which he could tell were also now splitting open and John found himself dreading the gag being removed at this point.

Someone approached him.

It's funny how instinctive spacial awareness heightens when you lose the use of your sight, John thought vaguely. He heard a knife slowly sliding from its sheath and his heart picked up its pace again. He tried to pull away but it was a futile attempt, barely able to simply raise his head in defiance. The someone grabbed a piece of his tee shirt and then snagged the material with the point of the knife. A steady pull with the blade and the material ripped and then two hands grabbed at him and tore the shirt from his body, roughly pulling it free.

John waited, wondering what kind of sight he made at this moment. Marek watched him from a few yards away, noting the trembling legs, gasping breaths and general weakness of the prisoner.

"Fetch the doctor," he told the man closest to the door.

"The doctor?" the man asked to verify and Marek gave him a stern look. "Ean's not going to like this, Marek."

"I'm not asking for his approval. I want to be sure he's going to live a while longer," Marek replied with a nod toward the prisoner. "I don't want him to die before telling us where we can find his friends."

"What about the Satedan?"

"What about him?" Marek asked and even John turned his face toward the voice in query.

"Maybe he'll tell us... under the same circumstances."

"I have no dispute with the Satedan. He will not give up his Alteran friends and I won't have him pay for someone else's crimes." Marek stepped up close to his captive letting his breath wash over John's cheek and whispered to him, "We won't hurt your friend... unless you make me."

The thought of these men tying up Ronon like some trapped animal and doing this or worse to his best friend caused a surge of rage in Sheppard. He straightened suddenly with a muffled shout and, estimating Marek's close proximity, brought one knee up sharply, catching his torturer in the groin.

Marek doubled over with a loud cough as the surprise pain forced air from his lungs. The others in the room came to attention and one over-zealous follower stepped forward and bashed Sheppard across the back of the skull with a blunt club. John slumped limply in the chains again, fighting to stay conscious from the blow and Marek moved to a safe distance as he needed a few moments to recover from his own hit.

Unsure of what just happened, the man by the door glanced around wildly - from Marek to Sheppard to the man with the club and back to Marek. He turned and threw the door open and ran down the hall to find the doctor as Marek had ordered.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Puddle Jumpers exited the Stargate and immediately cloaked, but Marek's watchers were guarding the portal as ordered. Marek had assumed correctly that once the Alterans were told of their missing man they'd send a search party. The sentinels, alerted by the dialing ring, stood armed and ready for the rescue team. They were taken aback when the two cylindrical ships zipped through and then disappeared into thin air.

The entire group hunkered down and scanned the skies with wide eyes. They hadn't been expecting ships and the watchers felt exposed and outnumbered at this point. The group continued to look skyward while sending one man back to inform Marek of the fantastical sighting.

The generations of storytellers, throughout the Matullan history, had turned the prophesied return of the Alterans into a myth, a near-religion, that harbored a vengeance for crimes committed by their ancestors thousands of years past. Their stories had created a cult-like mentality amongst some of the Matullans, while another sect of the population understood the return would consist of the descendants, or "second coming of their kind", not the Alterans themselves.

One faction wanted revenge on the Ancestors for what they'd done in their galaxy. Marek and his soldiers were of this belief. The other faction believed the return would consist not of the Alterans themselves, but of their children, the Annunaki, who possessed the knowledge and, through the right of birth, the ability of the Ancients to correct the abominations their forebears had left behind.

~ * ~* ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon passed the long hours of solitude pacing his cell and calling out to anyone passing by his door. Many times he'd exhausted himself this way, peppering his physical attempts to escape with long hours of exercise to keep from becoming weak and listless. He had no idea how long they'd be held or when their friends would find them, but Ronon wanted to be physically ready when the time came.

He was on the floor, pumping out another hundred push-ups when the sound of voices outside his door caught his attention. He didn't stop pushing out his set even when he heard the sound of the latch sliding back and the door opening to allow someone entry. Ronon noted the shoes just out of his direct line of sight but he pushed out his final eight then paused with his arms locked straight.

Turning his head slightly, Ronon looked at the shoes that indicated the person's position was to stand patiently waiting for his attention. The Satedan relented and slowly sat back on his knees and looked up at the older man looking down at him with an expression of regret.

"Yeah?" Ronon said.

"My name is Ean Viccor, I'm a doctor. I've come to check on your welfare," he told the large man kneeling on the dirt floor.

"I don't need a doctor," Ronon grumbled at him and then shifted onto his butt and slid himself back to lean against his cot.

"Well, knowing Marek and his men, I insisted on making sure of that myself," Ean informed him in a manner that reminded Ronon of Dr. Beckett's manner. "Let me take a look at that gash on your forehead," he mentioned as he put his bag down on the bed and reached his hand out.

"I'm fine, I said," Ronon insisted heatedly and pulled his head away from the stranger's touch.

"I'll be the judge of that if you don't mind," Doc Viccor stated in a tone again reminiscent of Carson Beckett. Ronon wasn't sure what to make of the man but he held still as Ean examined the laceration that had already begun to heal.

"What did you mean?" Ronon asked as the doctor applied an antibiotic gel to the healing wound and carefully covered it with a small dressing, taping it in place. "What did you mean 'knowing Marek and his men'?"

"Well," Viccor began slowly, "they aren't exactly the type to have a soft touch when they're looking for information."

"What?" Ronon pushed away from the man so he could turn a bit to look at him directly. "Wait. What kind of information?"

"Knowing Marek, he's probably demanded that you tell him about what you know of the Alterans...? It's all he seems to care about. It's become an obsession over the years, especially since the cullings have resumed sooner than anticipated."

"Who are the Alterans?" Ronon asked, confused.

"The Alterans. The... Ancestors?" Ean offered with a touch of doubt. "I'm sorry, I don't know by what name others in the galaxy know them as."

"Nobody's asked me anything about anything," Ronon told the man, piercing him with jade green eyes. "One of the guards did mention that name. He accused my friend of being an Ancient."

"Who?" Viccor asked, now looking to Ronon with serious concern. "What friend? I thought you were alone here."

"No. I had someone with me when we were taken prisoner. I haven't seen him since and nobody will tell me where he is."

Dr. Viccor sat beside Ronon on the edge of the cot as he finished taping the dressing in place. His expression was furrowed in serious thought and concern. "I haven't been told of another. Which doesn't bode well for your friend... especially if they believe he's an Alteran."

"Why not?" Ronon demanded to know as he pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the door. He stopped and turned back to the doctor halfway there. "What are they doing to him?" Ronon wanted to know.

"I don't know. I don't even know where he is," the doctor offered, but the lack of answers only served to agitate Ronon even more. The doctor simply sat and watched the prisoner, who was becoming angrier by the second. He wished he had the answers the man wanted, but then again he wished Marek would stop taking prisoners for no good cause as well.

"My friend is not an Ancient. He's not an Alteran," Ronon insisted. Dr. Viccor studied the Satedan closely and then shifted slightly on the edge of the cot.

"Does your friend carry the blood of the Ancestors?" Ean asked quietly, throwing a look toward the door to be sure they weren't being spied on. Ronon simply looked back, unsure if this man could be trusted and not really knowing why he'd ask.

"Please," the doctor asked, "if he carries the blood and is not an Alteran, then he is Annunaki. A descendant... one of those foretold in the stories of my people about the Alteran's returning, but in a second form - the Annunaki, the children of the creators."

Ronon had no idea how to answer that. He didn't need to either. Ean could see the truth in his faraway gaze as he tried to separate the truths from the legend. Dr. Viccor nodded and patted the large man on the shoulder, "It is alright. You don't have to find an answer. Your hesitation tells me that what I ask has come to pass... in a manner of speaking."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The sentry who'd been sent back to the compound finally found Marek in the interrogation room after having asked a number of his comrades if they knew of his whereabouts. He pushed his way through the door, pushing aside the guard who'd been standing in front of it with his back to the door.

"Marek! Ships!" he blurted out, gasping for air after his long run back.

At the sound of the door being forced open and his guard's dismayed retort at the abrupt intrusion, Marek spun around nearly pulling his gun. He stopped himself when he recognized the man and watched him with confusion and great interest as he tried to catch his breath, obviously having run the entire way back to report.

"What ships?" Marek demanded to know.

"Ships. Through the Great Ring. Two of them," the sentry gasped in short sentences.

Marek instinctively looked to his prisoner, hanging in chains by his bloodied wrists and looking near death, but still... there was a slight change to the prisoner's expression. Barely visible, but almost a grin behind the bloody, rank smelling and rancid tasting gag. He looked... satisfied? Or vindicated, Marek wasn't sure which.

"Your Alteran friends, I presume," he stated calmly to the captive. John tried to shrug but couldn't, wincing with the pain of the attempt then shook his head loosely.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon and Dr Viccor regarded each other silently, one man with many questions and the other holding none of the answers he was looking for, when a slight commotion sprang up outside the cell door.

"I need to see Doc Viccor! Marek's orders!" a voice demanded and a moment later the door swung open allowing entry to one of the elite members of Marek's force.

"What is it?" Ean asked, knowing the Satedan would appreciate any information as well. The guard grabbed Viccor's arm and pulled him a few feet to the side, speaking low and with his back to Ronon.

"Marek requests your services for..." he tossed a look over his shoulder and Ronon straightened a bit, listening, "... for one of the prisoners."

"Great," Doc replied, sounding totally annoyed, knowing what that request would mean. "So what's he done this time? Beaten the man half to death?" he asked, throwing a glance to the Satedan as he tried to lead the other man into divulging information.

"Not exactly. Maybe more than half, actually," the guard advised him.

Ronon shot the doctor a glaring look of concern. He knew it was Sheppard, he just knew it. Ean apparently knew it too, for he closed up his bag and patted Ronon on the shoulder as he turned back to the messenger.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" The doctor ordered. He followed the guard out the door and just before he vanished he looked back at Dex with a small nod.

Ronon launched himself from the floor as soon as the door began to swing shut. He made it there just as the heavy metal barrier clanged shut and he tried to peer out the small barred window in hopes of seeing which way the doctor was taken, but he couldn't see more than three feet or so in either direction.

Ronon punched the solid door with a frustrated roar and proceeded to pace again in an attempt to pump up his fury. If this Marek had caused Sheppard any harm... he would pay, Ronon vowed. He will pay.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marek studied his captive for a long moment and then a thought occurred to him. He marched over to the man's pack and equipment and rummaged through the heavy military style mesh vest. It had numerous pockets inside and out and finally he found what he was looking for.

He held the flat square device in his hand, recognizing it as technology of the Ancestors. It lay dormant and dark in his hand and Marek turned it over to look at it from every angle. There was no levers, buttons or switches to turn it on, whatever it was and he knew from the stories passed down that only one who carries the blood of the creators can activate the ancient technology.

Marek turned and looked at Sheppard silently then looked down at the device again. A second's thought and he stepped slowly toward the prisoner, unsure if the man was conscious or not since he hadn't moved or made a sound in the few moments that had passed since his last question.

"What is this?" he asked the prisoner, not that Sheppard could answer if he even wanted to. "This was working the other day. I saw it in your hand all lit up and now it is darkened as if drained."

Sheppard figured he must be referring to the life signs detector he'd had in his hand at the ruins. Rodney had one too.

Marek's eyes scanned John's body, his torso, his arms and up to his bloodied hands hanging from the shackles above his head. Turning the object in his hand, Marek stepped forward carefully and pressed the box to Sheppard's chest. It lit up bright with a soft humming noise indicating it'd been activated.

John's head lifted and he tried to shake the object off and succeeded. It went dark as Marek pulled it away, stepping back a short distance remembering Sheppard's knee being planted painfully into his body. He waited for the prisoner to stop struggling and moved back in again. Up close, face to face, Marek reached around to put his hand on Sheppard's back, pulling him forward and holding him in place as he pressed the device to his side again.

"You are Alteran," Marek accused him with a dark tone that warned of no good.

Accused of crimes against humanity, against humans of not just a country or a land, but of an entire galaxy. Accused of crimes committed in error - or on purpose, he'd yet to establish that - but nonetheless, crimes committed ten thousand years before his birth in a galaxy far, far away.

Sheppard responded to the threat the only way he was able. Steeling himself against the pain of a torn up shoulder, he pulled back and then threw his head forward, connecting his forehead with Marek's and sending the man reeling.

Marek shouted out in surprise and distress, doubling over he clutched his head as his vision went black and dizziness overtook him for those few seconds after the hit. John took advantage of knowing his opponent's reaction to such a hit, as he'd seen it many times - had even been on the receiving end of a head strike.

Sheppard reached up and wrapped his hands around the chains, pulling his weight up off the floor with a muffled shout of blinding pain. With great effort, and the last bit of strength he had he was sure, he pulled his legs up high and wide, closing them together blindly he caught his torturer between his legs.

Shifting his position enough as Marek began to react to his assault, John was able to grip the man's neck between his knees, pulling him in close and wrapping his legs tight around the man in a strangle hold. He crossed his ankles for extra leverage to work from, listening to Marek choke and gag as he squeezed.

His shoulder screamed and his weight bore down on it more as his tingling hand lost strength and loosened from the chain. John roared behind the gag, blinded and bound and otherwise helpless, this was his last shot for survival. Do or die.

Something slammed into his head. Then again. Clubs, he realized. He'd forgotten they weren't alone in the room and Marek's supporters were coming to his rescue. John took the hits, as hard as they were, he squeezed his knees together as hard as he could but it wasn't enough as he was battered senseless and Marek wriggled free.

Jumping out of the prisoner's grasping legs, Marek's anger flared and he stormed forward, pushing his men away viciously. Drawing his knife from its sheath at his hip, Marek stepped up close to the prisoner and pushed the blade into the man's side. One inch, that was all. Enough to make the captive freeze as his breath was stolen from him in a sudden and sharp pain.

"NNNNNGGGGGHHH!!!!!" Sheppard called out at the intense pain of the penetrated blade.

Marek held him there, face to face, his hot breath washed over Sheppard's face as he held the prisoner in an almost intimate embrace. John grunted and gasped for air then struggled against the man's hold trying to push away from the offending instrument of pain, but Marek held him there, close to him.

His men watched in silent shock as he slowly, so slowly pushed the blade deeper. Sheppard screamed behind his gag as he could feel every agonizing inch of the blade separating tissue and tearing through his body at a mercilessly slow pace. He gasped for air as the blade was maneuvered upward, under his ribcage, tearing his diaphragm.

A quick stab and release would've been alot easier to handle, but this excruciatingly slow penetration was inhuman. Even the other soldiers in the room held their own breaths as they watched. That was probably the cruelest action they'd ever witnessed from Marek, or anyone else for that matter.

Sheppard's eyes rolled over white under the blindfold and he began to lose consciousness. His head lolled backwards as the pain sapped his strength and his legs gave out. Once his prisoner had gone completely limp in his arms, Marek pushed the blade all the way in until the hilt and his hand were drenched in the man's blood.

"Marek!!" a voice bellowed out and the torturer turned to see the physician he'd summoned standing in the doorway. He stepped back, away from the prisoner, withdrawing the blade smoothly as he did so.

Ean stared wide-eyed in fury and horror at what he'd just seen. It wasn't just the stabbing either that had shocked him but the manner in which it was doled out. Marek, stood before him as if in shock, having literally been forced out of what had appeared to be a sort of euphoric trance. Marek looked over at him as if stunned himself and unsure of what just happened.

"Get him out of here!" Dr. Viccor ordered, gesturing at him with a wide sweep of his arm. Two of Marek's guards moved forward quickly to hasten their leader from the room and away from the doctor's infuriated ire.

Two of the stunned guards remained in the room as Ean moved to the prisoner quickly. He couldn't believe what he was looking at. The bruised and broken body of an innocent man hanging before him. His mind tried to wrap around the entire scene but he couldn't grasp it.

Marek had wanted this man to pay for crimes of a people who no longer existed. The shackles kept the prisoner from being able to defend himself. The blindfold kept him from seeing what was coming, so he couldn't even ready himself mentally if not physically. The gag holding back the man's shouts and screams but also making it impossible for him to answer any of Marek's accusations.

"This is not justice!" Ean shouted at the guards as he pressed his hand against the deep wound under the man's ribcage. "This is vengeance! This is revenge! And on an innocent man!"

The two guards looked terrified for this was more than they'd ever expected as well and now they were left to face the doctor's anger for a crime committed by another. They'd come full circle hadn't they? The two men exchanged repentant looks.

"He is not Alteran!" Ean told them. "He is Annunaki! The second coming of their kind... foretold to return to undo what his ancestors had done! Marek's obsession with revenge might've sealed our fate this time for good!" The doctor was beside himself. "We need to bring him back to his own people!" the good doctor ordered the men. "They will be able to save him. Go get his friend!"

"We can't do that," one of the terrified guards replied. "Marek would kill us if we let them go."

"Cowards!" Ean shouted. "You! Come here!" he said to the man closest to him. "Hold this here, keep pressure on the wound! Do not let up!"

The guard stepped forward and took over applying pressure to the gaping hole in Sheppard's side. The doctor bent down and retrieved a handful of sterile dressings from his bag and shoved them under the man's hand. "Hold that there!"

The guard nodded and did as he was told, then looked shocked and terrified as the doctor ran out of the room. The young man looked at the covered face of the tortured man in front of him... and knew at that very moment that his nights of restful sleep had just ended.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Ean ran down the maze of darkened corridors toward the cell where the Satedan was being kept. He passed by many empty cells as well as rooms occupied by Marek's soldiers and guards who were relaxing or taking a break from their duties.

Marek, who'd been taken to a quiet room not far from the torture room saw the good doctor race by the doorway. Realizing his prisoner was once again unattended, Marek broke free from the men around him and ran back to his captive.

Entering the room, he looked at the guard who was holding the bloodied bandage to his side. The young soldier simply blinked back at his leader with wide eyes, torn between two ideals now, his military responsiblities as defined by Marek and his moral duty.

"Move!" he ordered the young man.

"Marek --"

"Move... away... from him," Marek growled. His voice was dripping with venom, but his eyes sparkled bright, with an insane joy. The younger man shook his head as he looked behind him, hoping Marek kept his distance until the doc returned.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling when he heard a familiar voice shouting outside in the corridor, ordering the door to his cell be opened. He sat up quickly and lunged to his feet just as the door swung open and Dr. Viccor forced his way in, putting his weight against the door.

"Come quickly!" Ean waved frantically for him to follow. Ronon ran to him and exited the cell behind the doctor.

The guards in the corridor startled as the large man appeared in their midst. They reached for their weapons, ordering him to stop and Ronon moved. He landed a punch to the first one and kicked out at the second. With both men stunned he went in for the killing blows and ended the skirmish in a matter of seconds.

He leaned down and wretched a gun from its holster and stood up. Turning to face the doctor, his long dreadlocks whipping about his head, Ronon pressed his hand to the doctor's back and pushed him along quickly.

"Take me to my friend," he said and the doctor nodded, pointing down the corridor as they moved quickly.

"You must take him and leave this place. Marek will kill him if you don't," Ean advised him.

"Don't worry, Doc. We're out of here just as soon as you get me to him. Is he alright?" Ronon asked, even as he focused his attention to every corner and shadow along the way.

"No, I'm afraid he isn't. You must return him to his people or he will not survive," Viccor informed him somberly. Ronon's head snapped around and he glared at the doctor. The intensity in his eyes was a mixture of anger and worry, but the anger wasn't for the good doctor.

The further down the corridors they moved, the more resistance they met Ronon had taken out seven guards and collected a nice array of guns and knives along the way. As they turned the last corner, the doctor ran forward, pointing at a closed door at the end of the corridor to the left. "There! Your friend is in there!"

Ronon peered into the last rooms before his destination and with a skipping hop to change his pace, he raced headlong down the corridor with a loud roar. He hit the solid door squarely and it exploded inward, snapping the hinges and shattering the locking mechanism.

Everyone inside jumped and turned toward him. Marek was standing in front of Sheppard and a young soldier who seemed to be putting himself between his friend and the man wishing to do him more harm. Ronon took only a second to take in the sight of John hanging there like a grotesque puppet for the amusement of these men.

His fury boiled over and his vision blurred with the intensity of a rage that he'd never experienced. Even with all the traumas and injustices he'd faced in his own life, they seemed to culminate into this very moment and Ronon was blinded by his own fury. Everything in the room turned red as the Satedan let loose an impassioned savagery on the men inside.

One after another they fell, some screaming and shouting out in terror or indignation and others silently and with their own sense of valor. Marek was the last to be taken out and Ronon held him on his knees, his hand wrapped around the man's throat. Marek clawed at the vice-like grip around his windpipe as he stared up at the enraged man standing over him.

Ronon turned his head and looked at Sheppard. His eyes followed the form from the scuffed boots up to the bruised and battered body, the blood soaked dressing the doctor was now pressing to John's side. His beautiful green eyes studied Sheppard's covered and swollen face; his lips chapped from dehydration and split wide from abuse in a bloody mess; his wrists torn apart from the shackles and more blood drying down the length of his arms to a dislocated shoulder badly torn from its socket...

Ronon looked back down at Marek. He clenched his jaw as rage threatened to build into a volcanic eruption and just as that vengeful rage peaked, Ronon twisted his grip just enough and a loud gasp came from the torturer's throat, followed by wet gurgles.

Ean snapped his attention from the prisoner to the other two men, in time to see Marek fall over dead with his throat torn out. Ronon turned toward Viccor slowly, still holding Marek's voice box in his bloodied fingers. He looked from the doctor to Sheppard as if traumatized by what he saw there.

"Take him," Ean told him. Keeping his hands on the wound, he stepped back a bit to let the giant know he was not the threat. Ronon stepped up to them and stared at Sheppard's limp form. "You need to take him out of here. I heard the guards talking earlier... rumors of your friends arriving in ships through the Great Ring. Yes?"

Ean tried to prompt Ronon to move with the hope of rescue already here. He grabbed the great man's arm and shook him a bit. "Your friends have come. Take him!"

Ronon nodded and Ean placed the large hand on the wound. He fetched a roll of bandaging and secured the bloodied dressings so that the Satedan wouldn't have to worry about that during their escape. Once that was done, Ean simply kept his hands on Sheppard long enough for Ronon to reach up and break the chains that held his friend captive.

Ronon wrapped John in his arms and just held his broken body tight to him as his whole body shook with grief and rage. He pressed John's head to his shoulder and angry tears spilled down the warrior's cheeks. "ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHH!!!!" he roared in anguish at what they'd done to his friend. His best friend... his brother.

"Take him!" Ean urged, feeling remorse and pity for the pair. "Go! Quickly!"

He practically pushed and pulled Ronon to get the large man moving, but once he'd started down the path for freedom with Sheppard in his arms, there was no stopping him. The great Satedan steamrolled over anyone who was stupid enough to step in his path.

Holding John to him with one strong arm he dispatched all enemies with the other swinging. Empty handed or with a blade or gun, it didn't matter and by the time Ronon made it to the open field where the Gate stood he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there or how John's inert body became draped over his shoulders.

Marek's surviving troops were right behind them, unaware of the death of their leader and still fearing his reprimand should the prisoners actually escape their grasp. They chased the Lanteans for over a mile and Ronon simply ran. Running was something he'd had seven years of experience with, and was saved from that life on the run by the very man he held in his arms at this moment.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Above the landscape, Lorne was making a large lazy circle as their sensors had indicated a large structure below them that they couldn't get a visual on. He suspected that it might be underground, but Rodney countered with an estimation that it may be partially underground but the forest canopy was inhibiting their ability to locate the surface structure.

The two Jumper pilots were heading back toward the Gate in order to land the crafts and investigate further on foot now that they had a bead on a possible location. As Jumper Two swung around in a wide arc, the HUD popped up, indicating life signs below... and two of them emitted signals that reflected the subcutaneous transmitters of their missing men.

"We've got 'em!" Lorne exclaimed over the radio. "They're in trouble!" he added.

"Of course, they're in trouble!" Rodney shouted back. "Where do you think they've been for the past three days? On a picnic?"

"They've got a whole platoon on their asses. Let's get down there. They're almost to the Gate! Dialing home! Jumper Six, get down there and give them ground cover fire. I'll stay on the high side for Drone coverage if needed," Lorne ordered to Sgt. Stackhouse. Then he turned his attention to Atlantis as soon as the Gate opened. "Atlantis, this is Lorne. We have two MIA's coming in hot, have a medical team standing by!"

Landing Jumper Six about thirty yards from the activating Ring, Stackhouse positioned the cloaked Jumper so the rear hatch was facing the oncoming runners. He'd underestimated Ronon's speed though and by the time the Jumper was settled on the ground Ronon was halfway between it and the Gate.

He looked to the skies, realizing the only way that Gate had dialed with nobody standing at the DHD was by Puddle Jumper. Lorne deativated his cloak as he saw Ronon searching. The sight of the Jumper covering them from above gave Ronon a surge of hope. They were going to make it... their friends had come for them. Nobody gets left behind.

The hatch settled in position, fully open, just as the enemy troops closed in on their position. Rodney ran down the ramp with a banshee yell and opened fire on the platoon chasing down his friends. The sight of Sheppard as Ronon ran past their landing craft made McKay want to toss his breakfast with the sour sensation that overtook him.

Dr. McKay mowed down half a dozen of the armed soldiers in his own grief-stricken rage, before the Marines onboard the craft joined him to take care of the rest. Once they'd taken care of the threat, the familiar sound of something passing through the event horizon caught Rodney's attention. He ran around the Jumper to see for himself that his friends were safe just as Lorne's voice came over his headset. "They're through. They're home, Dr. McKay."

Rodney slumped in relief, hanging his head and nearly dropping the empty weapon he held in his hands. "Thank God," he muttered to the powers that be.

"Let's go!" Lorne's voice drew him back to the present.

"Yes, yes! Let's go!" Rodney ordered as he ran back up the ramp.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Drop the shield! Medical Team to the Gateroom!" Sam ordered. "Security teams!"

Colonel Carter trotted down the main staircase toward the activated Stargate as security teams poured onto the platform to take up positions of defense and cover. Approximately a minute and a half from Lorne's transmission Ronon ran through to their side with Sheppard draped over his shoulders.

"Help me," he said, scanning all the people staring at him. He knelt down carefully to place Sheppard on the floor and a couple of the Marines came over to ease the unconscious man off the Satedan's shoulders.

"Oh my god," Sam remarked in shock at seeing the condition of her Second-in-Command.

The emergency medical response team ran onto the platform with a stretcher and equipment but the sight of the colonel's condition prompted them to choose not to hover for preliminary treatment. The same two Marines helped the medical team lift Sheppard onto the gurney and they immediately took off with him back to the infirmary.

Ronon stood up shakily and tried to push through the crowd to follow. Sam wasn't about to try to stop him.

"Escort Ronon to the infirmary," she told the security team. Just in case the big man went down on the way there, he wouldn't be alone and unattended. He didn't look anywhere near as bad as Sheppard, but one could never tell what he'd endured during the time they were unaccounted for. "Clear the Gate platform!" Sam ordered and all personnel stepped off the edge of the daiz. "Jumper Two you are clear for re-entry," she informed Major Lorne.

Jumper Six was the first to arrive and didn't hesitate to ascend to the Jumper Bay above to allow Jumper Two to enter behind them. Once both ships were settled in their respective spots, the hatches lowered and Rodney, Teyla and Lorne all ran from their shuttles and straight to the infirmary.

* ~ * ~ *

When they reached the medical bay Teyla spotted Ronon pacing back and forth in front of curtained off area. One of the nurses was trying in vain to get him to sit down so she could check him over. He simply brushed her off repeatedly, saying he was fine and asking about Sheppard.

"I want to be in there!" Ronon was demanding.

"You can't go in there right now, I'm sorry," the nurse told him yet again.

"Ronon?" Teyla called to him and he spun on his heel and moved to her. She grabbed him by the arms and looked up at him before the two friends embraced. "John?" she asked, having seen his nightmare through the main window of the jumper.

"They won't let me in," he told her then he locked his gaze on Rodney. "He's not good."

Rodney swallowed hard, his sorrow clearly written all over his face. Lorne rested a heavy hand on McKay's shoulder in encouragement. "You did real good out there, Dr. McKay. Just like Rambo."

Teyla turned slightly in Ronon's embrace and held her hand out to Rodney. He stared at her for a moment and then stepped forward to take her hand. She pulled him in tight to them and the three teammates clung to each other for strength and support.

Lorne watched with a sad smile, stepping up to lend his own strength to the team, resting his hands on Teyla's back and Rodney's shoulder. As Sheppard's second in the chain of command for the military faction of the expedition, Lorne also felt the hit.

Nobody left the infirmary and hours later Dr. Keller came out to inform them that Sheppard had come through surgery for the stab wound with flying colors. "He's extremely weak though," she told them. She had a wonderfully soft voice that seemed to help cushion any bad news she had to deliver to friends and family. "He's in critical condition, but holding his own for now," she told the team.

"Can we see him?" Ronon asked.

"You should get some rest too," she told him. "You're not doing him any good wearing yourself down."

"Can we see him?" Ronon repeated as if she hadn't spoken.

"In a little bit," she acquiesced. "Carson's with him now. He'll let you know when."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Another twenty minutes passed before Dr. Beckett appeared before them. Teyla was sitting on a couch, resting her head upon Ronon's chest, his arm draped over her shoulders. Most of the team had begun to doze and Ronon was sound asleep when Lorne's voice stirred her and Rodney.

"Hey, Doc," Evan greeted him and stood up. Teyla and Rodney also stood up and having her warmth and weight moved from his side, Ronon's eyes opened to see everyone standing in front of him with Carson. He sprang to his feet quickly and Teyla put her hands on his belly to settle him.

"Carson... how is he?" Rodney asked first.

"He's resting at the moment," Beckett informed them in his quiet brogue. "With great care we were able to remove the blindfold and the gag. Both were pretty much cemented in place by dried fluids. Scans show he has a skull fracture and a major concussion. Both eyes are swollen, the left is swollen shut, the right has a deep laceration that looks like it was repeatedly opened by beatings but he should be able to open it. Whether he can see out of it when he does is anyone's guess though.

"The condition of that gag they used was atrocious, the smell of it alone..." he caught himself before painting too gruesome a picture for Sheppard's friends. "It was tied pretty tight and the constant dampness of the material against his face has split the sides of his mouth raw. We've applied an antibiotic salve and he should keep it on for comfort as much as cleanliness. I suspect each of you can help keep an eye on that..." Each one of them nodded and Carson knew they could be expected to do much more if needed.

"Can we see him?" Ronon asked again, sounding incredibly exhausted and Carson figured the only way he'd get the big man to rest was to let them see Colonel Sheppard.

"Aye. I'd say one at a time but I doubt --" he trailed off as all three of them moved swiftly toward the cordoned off section of the infirmary. "Right." Carson offered Lorne a wee smile and the two men followed the team to John's bedside.

Teyla stood beside the bed to one side, her expression full of pain and empathy for her team leader - her friend. "Oh, John..." she said, it was all she could say and she carefully scooped his hand into hers, covering it gently with the other.

Rodney simply stared in horror at Sheppard, finding it wholly difficult to see John beneath the bruised and swollen mass. He was attached to all kinds of monitors that sounded off with hauntingly slow beeps. There was a very large bandage wrapped around his belly and lower portion of his ribcage. His entire body was black and blue and his shoulder looked like it'd been torn off and re-attached.

Carson allowed them to stay about ten minutes before ushering them out again. All but Ronon, who refused to leave altogether. Once Teyla had shifted her position away from the bedrail, Ronon had moved in, dropping down in the chair beside the bed he put both hands through the rail and held onto John's hand and wrist.

Dr. Beckett tried a few times, asking him to go lie down, but Ronon didn't even acknowledge him. The large man simply stared at his friend, his brilliant green eyes grief-stricken, until Carson finally lowered the railing for him and he finally lay his head down on John's arm. Carson watched him for a moment before deciding both men were fine as is and he left Ronon to rest as peacefully as he could at Sheppard's side.

~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~

The Thousandth Man

Rudyard Kipling

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,  
Will stick more close than a brother.  
And it's worth while seeking him half your days  
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend  
On what the world sees in you,  
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend  
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show  
Will settle the finding for thee.  
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go  
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him,  
The rest of the world don't matter;  
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim  
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk  
Than he uses yours for his spendings,  
And laugh and meet in your daily walk  
As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call  
For silver and gold in their dealings;  
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all;  
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,  
In season or out of season.  
Stand up and back it, in all men's sight—  
With _that_ for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide  
The shame or mocking or laughter,  
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side  
To the gallows-foot—and after!


	2. Chapter 2 Healing pt 1

**Title: The Thousandth Man series – Part Two**

**Story: Healing (pt 1) Sequel to Captives**

**Author: ltcoljsheppard**

**Summary: Ronon and John are back on Atlantis and in the infirmary the two friends begin the healing process together. **

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_"Drop the shield! Medical Team to the Gateroom!" Sam ordered. "Security teams!"_

_Colonel Carter trotted down the main staircase toward the activated Stargate as security teams poured onto the platform to take up positions of defense and cover. Approximately a minute and a half from Lorne's transmission Ronon ran through to their side with Sheppard draped over his shoulders._

_"Help me," he said, scanning all the people staring at him. He knelt down carefully to place Sheppard on the floor and a couple of the Marines came over to ease the unconscious man off the Satedan's shoulders._

_"Oh my god," Sam remarked in shock at seeing the condition of her Second-in-Command._

_The emergency medical response team ran onto the platform with a stretcher and equipment but the sight of the colonel's condition prompted them to choose not to hover for preliminary treatment. The same two Marines helped the medical team lift Sheppard onto the gurney and they immediately took off with him back to the infirmary._

_Ronon stood up shakily and tried to push through the crowd to follow. Sam wasn't about to try to stop him._

_"Escort Ronon to the infirmary," she told the security team. Just in case the big man went down on the way there, he wouldn't be alone and unattended. He didn't look anywhere near as bad as Sheppard, but one could never tell what he'd endured during the time they were unaccounted for. "Clear the Gate platform!" Sam ordered and all personnel stepped off the edge of the daiz. "Jumper Two you are clear for re-entry," she informed Major Lorne._

_Jumper Six was the first to arrive and didn't hesitate to ascend to the Jumper Bay above to allow Jumper Two to enter behind them. Once both ships were settled in their respective spots, the hatches lowered and Rodney, Teyla and Lorne all ran from their shuttles and straight to the infirmary._

_When they reached the medical bay Teyla spotted Ronon pacing back and forth in front of curtained off area. One of the nurses was trying in vain to get him to sit down so she could check him over. He simply brushed her off repeatedly, saying he was fine and asking about Sheppard._

_"I want to be in there!" Ronon was demanding._

_"You can't go in there right now, I'm sorry," the nurse told him yet again._

_"Ronon?" Teyla called to him and he spun on his heel and moved to her. She grabbed him by the arms and looked up at him before the two friends embraced. "John?" she asked, having seen his nightmare through the main window of the jumper._

_"They won't let me in," he told her then he locked his gaze on Rodney. "He's not good."_

_Rodney swallowed hard, his sorrow clearly written all over his face. _

_Lorne rested a heavy hand on McKay's shoulder in encouragement. "You did real good out there, Dr. McKay. Just like Rambo."_

_Teyla turned slightly in Ronon's embrace and held her hand out to Rodney. He stared at her for a moment and then stepped forward to take her hand. She pulled him in tight to them and the three teammates clung to each other for strength and support._

_Lorne watched with a sad smile, stepping up to lend his own strength to the team, resting his hands on Teyla's back and Rodney's shoulder. As Sheppard's second in the chain of command for the military faction of the expedition, Lorne also felt the hit._

~ * ~* ~* ~* ~

They say the hearing is the last sense to go and the first to come back when a person is experiencing an altered state of consciousness, such as catatonic or traumatic shock, even coma. And it was true.

Time had sped up and then slowed to frame-by-frame stillness as the events unfolded around him and then the world had blurred and gone black. Even the sensation of having a physical form seemed to fade away until he couldn't feel much of anything anymore. He could feel his feet inside his boots, feeling thick and overheated as if swollen inside the confines of the leather. He could feel his fingers and even the sensation of having arms that might move, if he could will them to move, but he didn't - because he didn't care at the moment.

Colonel Sheppard floated in that wonderful limbo between life and death; that level of existence where the only attractive sensation was the peace that wrapped around your soul like a fluffy warm blanket. That place inside the defensive mind of a trauma victim that made the very thought of dying a very comforting sensation.

He could sense the upper part of his chest, near his collarbones and was well-aware of having a head on his shoulders, but it seemed that his physical mass between his neck and his feet all but disappeared. As if his entire body had evaporated, disintegrated, melted away... to leave him existing as a spirit of only energy with no solid mass.

Of course that was the wonderful and most-amazing workings of the human brain. The massive amounts of endorphins and other chemicals the brain produced and churned out in the wake of tremendous physical pain was nature's own way of effecting its own "pain killer", to ease the effects of physical trauma as the body slowly died. It was nature's way of showing mercy.

The only problem that came along with such a relaxed and peaceful sensation after a traumatic event were the detrimental side effects to the victim's system. In order for that sense of peace to be achieved, fear and pain had to be nullified. When fear and pain were taken out of the equation so was the instinctive response to fight... to fight for life. That was the effect known as "shock".

As a soldier, a Para-rescuer, a trained combat field medic, John Sheppard knew all the ins and outs of what it took to keep his patients alive and fighting. But being on the other side, unknowingly. .. well, this wasn't so bad really.

If he'd been on his feet and thinking straight he'd be vividly aware that shock is a medical emergency. He'd realize he was in shock, because his organs and tissues weren't receiving an adequate flow of blood. He'd be alert to the fact that shock can result in serious damage of internal organs and even death. But, right now, floating in this peaceful, almost meditative state, he really didn't care about all that.

He was rapidly moving through the three stages of shock, the first stage was long gone. It'd happened quickly in that slow motion event when Marek plunged that blade so slowly into his abdomen, causing an intense pain and excruciating burning sensation to permeate his core.

When the lower level blood flow throughout his body was first detected, a number of systems were quickly activated in order to maintain or restore perfusion - the ability of his tissues to utilize the smaller volume of blood now available. The result was the quick acceleration of his heart, and the shrinking of the blood vessels throughout his body, in order to try to conserve and ration out what was available and his kidneys began their work to retain whatever fluid was left in his circulatory system.

Those attempts had played out in a matter of moments after the attack and by the time his body registered precisely what had happened and reacted to it, he was lying flat on his back in the snow and the people standing over him were discussing his fate.

Wait. What? Where was he? That's not how it happened…

Even as the Atlantis medical crew lifted him from the cold floor his body's methods of compensation were failing. He was unable to improve blood perfusion, as the deep knife wound continued to flow through the saturated dressings. He was losing a lot of blood fast and the signs and symptoms he showed were reflecting that fact.

Oxygen deprivation in the brain caused him to become confused and disoriented, voices were slowed and distorted and his vision doubled and blurred and he no longer had the ability to make proper choices for his own welfare, nor for others. Worse still, oxygen deprivation in the heart's system could cause chest pain and pulmonary and respiratory arrest. With quick and appropriate treatment, this stage of shock could still be reversed and, with proper care, usually with a complete recovery.

Stage three would come next. Known in medical circles as Irreversible Shock, that condition in which the amount of time that poor blood perfusion existed and began to take a permanent toll on the body's organs and tissues. The heart's ability to function would continue to spiral downward and the kidneys would shut down completely in a last ditch effort to keep all bodily fluids within the internal system. The cells in his organs and tissues, throughout his entire body and brain, would be injured beyond repair or recovery and will die. The endpoint of Stage III Shock, of course, is the patient's death.

As Ronon stepped out of the Gate inside the city of the Ancestors, Sheppard was already showing clear signs of failing compensation ability. He was pale and sweaty, but his skin was ice cold, his fingers and lips were turning blue as his body tried desperately to keep the flow of blood in the core of his chest where his life giving organs required the volume.

His silver military service tags hung around his neck, whipping about as Ronon laid him on the floor. One tag floated around to his back as it swung freely on its chain, the other thin tag had adhered to the damp skin of his throat and John mumbled something incoherently as the Marines lifted him from the floor in an attempt to carry him toward the responding medical team in order to save the precious time that he obviously needed.

Kaufman and Richards were on either side of him hefting his shoulders and Lt. Kent had taken hold of his long legs, holding one under each arm as they trotted down the steps from the Gate platform. As the team quickly descended the steps, John's arms and legs bounced limply, a sign that he was obviously out cold. Dr. Beckett ran into them coming toward him and moved quickly alongside them as they waited the few seconds for the gurney to catch up.

Dr. Keller also rushed into sight and stepped up behind them, moving quickly to join the team. She tried to support John's head and neck as it hyper-extended backward as the two men moved as quickly as they could, carrying him suspended by his arms and belt during the rapid extrication. She looked down at John, talking to him in support as she cradled his head in one hand, but his eyes were closed and his face was a ghostly pallor.

John could hear her reporting his condition quickly to Dr. Beckett as the team carefully dropped his inert body onto the stretcher at the bottom of the ramp. He noted that her voice sounded strained and shaky and hoped he hadn't caused her any upset. He saw no reason to be upset because he was feeling rather at ease. At this point, he just wanted to be left alone, in peace.

He'd barely held onto any recollection of what had taken place hours before and the events he could remember were recalled as if dreams far off in the mist. He was vaguely aware of the rushing around and the urgent hands pulling his clothes from his body, the warm covering that was draped nicely over him, the soft voice of an angel and tender hands upon him.

His eyeballs felt like they were floating around in their sockets as his head spun wildly, giving him the sensation of being flipped off the bed as someone started the sedative drip in order to keep him calm before surgery, and that wonderful slow decent into darkness.

It wasn't the same kind of darkness that one normally fears though. It wasn't a negative darkness or full of monsters and aliens who wanted to do harm. It was a merciful darkness and when you floated here, you were consciously aware of the floating sensation. A voice whispered in the back of his mind... and somehow he knew this feeling, it wasn't a natural darkness... it was induced.

Colonel Sheppard moaned softly under the mask being held to his face as he lay on the operating table. Vaguely aware of voices and the sensation of touch, but he felt no pain. That smell... he hated that smell... of a thick rubber mask covering his nose and mouth, the odor of anesthesia and oxygen... but before that image could cause any upset the vision swirled and changed.

He was in the cockpit of an F-22 Raptor, flying miles above the earth at breakneck speeds, the nose cone over his face supplying oxygen so he wouldn't pass out at this altitude. Then the blackness took him under again and the sweet image faded away.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hours later, around 0300, just out of surgery, he was rolled into post-op for intense observation for the first couple of hours out of the operating room. There was that angel's sweet voice that stirred his groggy brain again. He felt detached, as if he'd been discorporated from his physical body. Again that sensation of falling; of flipping over suddenly and falling great distances… and then in an instant it was gone and he was safe again.

His eyes felt heavy and stuck shut and, as the angel spoke to him, someone was pulling sticky tape slowly from his eyelids. Turning his head away just a bit as if to make them go away, John tried to speak but only a hoarse groan escaped his raw sore throat.

He tried to swallow and then panted, suddenly terrified by all the negative sensations. His chest heaved a few times and the monitors' bleeps demanded attention. Jennifer shushed him softly and explained something about a tube that had been removed from his throat and that he'd feel soreness there for a little while.

_Okay, that sounds reasonable,_ he thought.

She touched his cheek with a soft warm hand, so gently, and then threaded her fingers into his hand. She asked him to squeeze her fingers with his and he thought he had, but couldn't be sure. Jennifer smiled softly as Colonel Sheppard's fingers curled gently around hers.

He tried to take a deep breath, but his stomach lurched and his head spun wildly and he retched hard as his gag reflex suddenly came back online. The anesthetic and the dizziness, the floating and falling sensations, all served to make him extremely nauseous.

In a panic, his left hand rose up and grabbed the side rail of the post-op gurney, trying to pull himself onto his side as he thought he would vomit.

Jennifer called to the orderly nearby to help her keep him down flat, as she hushed him and replaced the oxygen mask so it would sit securely on his face and advised him to take slow deep breaths. Fresh out of surgery for abdominal wounds, his body would certainly not appreciate the sudden motions of sitting up or vomiting. And the vomiting was an absolute no-no at this point and what worried her the most.

Jennifer held tightly to one of his hands as she reached with the other over to the IV drip. Dr. Keller opened a tiny wheel on the tubing just enough to let a bit of sedative flow into his arm and numb the sensations that had obviously overwhelmed her patient. Back down into the darkness John went as the angel's voice slowed and slurred and distorted until it was no more.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Nobody left the infirmary and hours later Dr. Keller came out to inform them that Sheppard had come through surgery for the stab wound with flying colors. "He's extremely weak though," she told them. She had a wonderfully soft voice that seemed to help cushion any bad news she had to deliver to friends and family. "He's in critical condition, but holding his own for now," she told the team.

"Can we see him?" Ronon asked.

"You should get some rest too," she told him. "You're not doing him any good wearing yourself down."

"Can we see him?" Ronon repeated as if she hadn't spoken.

"In a little bit," she acquiesced. "Carson's with him now. He'll let you know when."

Another twenty minutes had passed before Dr. Beckett appeared before them. Teyla was sitting on a couch, resting her head upon Ronon's chest, his arm draped over her shoulders.

"Hey, Doc," Evan greeted him and stood up. Teyla and Rodney also stood up and having her warmth and weight moved from his side, Ronon's eyes opened to see everyone standing in front of him with Carson. He sprang to his feet quickly and Teyla put her hand on his arm to settle him.

"Carson... how is he?" Rodney asked first.

"He's resting at the moment," Beckett informed them in his quiet brogue. "With great care we were able to remove the blindfold and the gag. Both were pretty much cemented in place by dried fluids. Scans show he has a skull fracture and a major concussion. Both eyes are swollen, the left is swollen shut, the right has a deep laceration that looks like it was repeatedly opened by beatings but he should be able to open it. Whether he can see out of it when he does is anyone's guess though.

"The condition of that gag they used was atrocious, the smell of it alone..." he caught himself before painting too gruesome a picture for Sheppard's friends. "It was tied pretty tight and the constant dampness of the material against his face has split the sides of his mouth raw. We've applied an antibiotic salve and he should keep it on for comfort as much as cleanliness. I suspect each of you can help keep an eye on that..." Each one of them nodded and Carson knew they could be expected to do much more as needed.

"Can we see him?" Ronon asked again, sounding incredibly exhausted and Carson figured the only way he'd get the big man to rest was to let them see Colonel Sheppard.

"Aye. I'd say one at a time, but I doubt --" he trailed off as all three of them moved swiftly toward the cordoned off section of the infirmary. "Right." Carson offered Lorne a wee smile and the two men followed the team to John's bedside.

Teyla stood beside the bed to one side, her expression full of pain and empathy for her team leader - her friend. "Oh, John..." she said, it was all she could say and she carefully scooped his hand into hers, covering it gently with the other.

Rodney simply stared in horror at Sheppard, finding it wholly difficult to see John beneath the bruised and swollen mass. He was attached to all kinds of monitors that sounded off with hauntingly slow beeps. There was a very large bandage wrapped around his belly and lower portion of his ribcage. His entire body was black and blue and his shoulder looked like it'd been torn off and re-attached.

Carson allowed them to stay about ten minutes before ushering them out again. All but Ronon, who refused to leave altogether. Once Teyla had shifted her position away from the bed rail Ronon had moved in, dropping down in the chair beside the bed he put both hands through the rail and held onto John's hand and wrist.

Dr. Beckett tried a few times, asking him to go lie down, but Ronon didn't even acknowledge him. The large man simply stared at his friend, his brilliant green eyes grief-stricken, until Carson finally lowered the railing for him and he finally lay his head down on John's arm. Carson watched him for a moment before deciding both men were fine as is and he left Ronon to rest as peacefully as he could at Sheppard's side.

~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~

At 0636 hrs, Colonel Sheppard felt the sensation of waking again. This time it was a much calmer feeling and he thanked the stars for that. He was still not himself though and the ugly sensations he felt - in his head and in his body - were disconcerting to say the least.

He groaned loudly, voicing that distress, thinking surely he was alone. He was alone and defenseless and he had to move, he had to keep moving. His hands came up again suddenly to grip at the side rails as if in preparation to lever himself up.

He tried to swallow but his throat was arid dry and felt swollen and he coughed lightly as his tongue roughly dragged against the tender flesh inside. The intense movement of even the slightest cough caused him a sharp pain and he tensed and groaned again, then he opened his mouth and gasped loudly. The more tense he got, the more pain he felt, the more pain he felt , the more tense he got.

"Unnnhhh," Sheppard groaned, arching his neck backward and twisting his head to the side. He heard someone move suddenly beside him and tried to open dry, crusty eyes to identify who was close and coming at him. His vision was blurred, but he saw a woman's figure coming toward him and then that voice again.

It was her... it was the angel. He wasn't alone... and she was speaking to him in that soft comforting tone and John quieted down just to be able to hear her. He couldn't believe it... he wasn't all alone. Teyla was with him now.

These were the odd dreams and thoughts he repeatedly lived over and over again until they finally released him from that nether world and allowed him to come back to the here and now.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_Ronon suddenly loosened his death grip and sat back to look at his friend closely, his hands still clutching John's arms. "I thought we'd lost you......"_

_"I know," John replied with a gentle smile for his friend. Then he lowered his head and Ronon watched curiously as Sheppard sat before him very still. Suddenly his body went limp and he fell forward into Ronon's arms and the Satedan grabbed onto his team leader with a sudden sense of urgency and panic._

_"Sheppard!" he growled in concerned alarm. His friend was heavy weight in his arms and Ronon adjusted his catch, flipping Sheppard over in his arms to see a bloodied and unrecognizable mess where the military officer's face should be. "Sheppard--! " he growled again, giving the man a shake to wake him. Instead, Ronon was aghast as the man's left arm fell to the floor - detached from the body - and then the other._

_Wrapping his arms tight around the wounded man as if trying to physically hold his body together, Ronon gasped and whimpered in alarm. He was shocked to stillness when one raging, swollen eye suddenly opened to stare at him accusingly, before the grey-green iris turned to the foggy white of a blind man and then a guttural sound came from his friend's throat. "Where. Were. You?" the question found him guilty._

_Guilty of – what?_

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon jolted awake from the dream, his hand still resting on Sheppard's forearm and gripping it tightly. It took him a moment to realize where he was as he looked around the room, blinking away the images of weary sleep, his arms and hands trembling.

The infirmary was quiet and the lights had been dimmed to simulate the night time hours inside the great city. They were home. They were safe.

Safe.

You wouldn't know it to look at Sheppard, his face was bruised and swollen, his skin abraded, his body bruised and broken... and for what?

Ronon was having a real hard time with the whole truth that his team leader - his best friend - had been tortured, and nearly killed, simply because he possessed the DNA marker that connected him to the Ancients by blood. The gene that marked him, in their captors' eyes, as an Alteran, a descendant of the Ancestors and who'd been judged guilty for crimes against humanity. Crimes committed thousands of years before his birth in another galaxy, and yet he'd been made to pay for the 'sins of his fathers'.

Ronon shook his head as if simply trying to deny it could push the absurdity of it away. His strong hands gently kneaded the muscles in John's arm, careful not to disturb the needles and tubes that were fixed there. He finally broke the contact. Letting go, he stood up and moved to the large window nearby and looked out blindly at nothing in particular. The golden illumination of the ancient city at night rippled on the ocean outside like hidden jewels beneath the surface and still the beauty and grandeur of the massive city-ship escaped his notice.

There were few people in the galaxy that Ronon Dex hated as much as the Wraith, but the hatred he felt for Marek was a sour taste upon his tongue and he scowled at the bitterness of it. Even after killing the man in retaliatory rage hadn't lessened the flavor of his abhorrence for the dead man or his version of justice. A soft sound from behind him made Ronon turn around. Carson stood in the archway between the recovery area and the main room of the infirmary looking at him with an empathetic expression, his hands tucked comfortably into his white coat pockets.

"Hey, Doc," Ronon greeted somberly.

"Hey, yourself," Dr. Beckett echoed in his soft Scottish brogue. "Did you get much rest?" he asked.

Although Ronon hadn't been physically mistreated, beyond a small bump on the head, Carson worried as much for him as he did for his unconscious patient. Ronon Dex was a warrior of paramount proportions and he had little tolerance for standing around and doing nothing. He was a man of action, a man of courage and strength and one of great loyalty. He hadn't been harmed physically during his imprisonment, but the fact that John Sheppard had been - while the Satedan sat in a cell only yards away - was a struggle in mental anguish that Ronon was having trouble reconciling with his conscience.

"Yeah, I slept for a bit," Ronon replied and turned his back to the window to watch as Beckett moved to Sheppard's bedside.

As Carson checked his patient's vitals and overall condition once more, adjusting the fluid drips and checking the monitors, he glanced at the Satedan. He could see the weariness as Ronon stood with his shoulders rolled forward, as if bearing an incredible invisible weight.

"You mustn't blame yourself, son," Carson told him with great compassion in his voice.

"I should've been there," Ronon replied.

"You were there, Big Man," Carson reminded him.

"No. I wasn't," Ronon countered with a hint of anger in his voice. Anger not focused on Beckett, but on himself and on the man who'd done this to Sheppard; the man who'd already paid the price for his actions with his life.

Carson finished his check on Colonel Sheppard and lingered just another moment to regard the large Satedan warrior standing a few yards away staring unfocused at the floor. He looked between the two men, one without physical injuries and the other with many. Both wounded critically; one physically, the other not, but both would suffer the traumatic effects for a long time to come, he was sure.

Unless they were able to find a way to heal from this experience and Beckett was certain they could do it. Just as he was certain that they would have to not only heal themselves, but they'd have to help each other to heal as well.

~ * ~ *~ * ~

_Sheppard's heart pounded in his chest.... he froze like a statue._

_He reached for his sidearm. Drawing the pistol, he aimed._

_Exhausted and confused... he saw nothing in the darkness of the desert. He'd been shot out of the sky and hunted like an animal... being tracked by the enemy. He scrambled again, trying to move quickly through the loose sand of the dunes. He could hear them, their gibberish language echoing over the vast hills and valleys of the Saudi sandbox. Or was it?_

_He spun, aiming in different directions.. . waiting for a visual... a shadow..._

_There!_

… _and gone._

_His breaths came quickly, panting with the stress... the desert night was full of shadows... there… no, there!_

_Pull the trigger._

_I have no target!_

_Pull the trigger!_

_I can't! Can't afford to waste ammo...!_

_Holding his arm outstretched behind him, he scrambles upward and falls into the cascading sand as he climbs the next dune. _

_Voices… all around him now…_

_He claws and kicks his way to the top. He's under water... kicking and fighting his way to the surface. Air. His hands reaching over his head, reaching for the surface, reaching for the city above him..._

_He breaches the surface and gulps in a lungful of air... his boots fill with alien sand, he looks around and sees the city now buried in the shifting sand on a distant dune..._

_No!_

_He reaches the top and scrambles to his feet, staring at the City In the Sand... its golden lights gleaming like a beacon in the desert night. He turns to run and something moves... a shadow against the darkness. _

_Something hits him... hard. Sharp pain shoots through his eyes, his face... and then blackness. Not the night's blackness though, but his own personal darkness..._

_Hands, many hands, pull him upright to his feet. His legs give way and blood pours from his mouth and nose. He's pulled from the floor... thirsty and tired... in pain. Bound by his wrists... hung by chains... beaten and burned and they try to drown him... carving his flesh... tortured... shot down and captured._

_They'll come for you. No one gets left behind… no one…_

_No one?_

_Not even John Sheppard._

_They'll come for you... they will..._

_When?_

_.... "----"...._

_When???_

~*~ * ~ * ~

John gasped and fought his way out of the dream - A memory? No, it really was a dream, fitful and restless... and terrifying.

Ronon heard the soft gasp and turned away from the window at the sound. He frowned in concern and walked slowly toward the bed. He could see movement; slight and apprehensive, but he realized Sheppard was awake. He'd jolted awake with a gasp, Ronon realized and he understood, for he'd woken in the same manner. He moved across the floor quickly, his long legs propelling him forward, not wanting his friend to feel anxiety of waking up alone, not knowing where he was or why he hurt so badly.

"It's okay," Ronon offered even before he reached the bed, to let John know there was someone there. "It's okay. I'm here," he told John who was searching the area closest to the bed with a single roaming eye that wasn't covered by the protective bandages.

He blinked as Ronon came within view, his vision was blurred and strange but he'd know that voice and the shape looming over him anywhere. He tried to open his mouth to speak and winced at the attempt with a hiss.

"Hey, buddy. Take it easy. It's okay," Ronon told him again, pressing a solid hand to his friend's good shoulder. "Don't try to talk."

Even with that advice John did make an attempt to speak through raw, split lips that looked incredibly painful and Dex was certain what he was trying to say. Where are we?

"We're home. In Atlantis," Ronon reassured him. "You're in the infirmary. You had surgery. You're gonna be okay though," he told him.

Ronon watched that single hazel eye as it tried to take in their surroundings. He'd been told that Sheppard's condition was severe, his brain had suffered a serious concussion and his vision would be affected by the injuries to his ocular areas. Ronon could see the evidence of that damage in the blood that now reddened the white of his eye, indicating that blood vessels in or behind the eye had burst. He watched that singular eye roll around in the socket, searching, and wondered if John could actually see out of it and, if so, what exactly could he see.

~* ~ * ~ * ~

Dr. Beckett had come in to sit with him in the wee hours of the night, since Ronon refused to leave John's side. He used that time to outline what he could expect as Colonel Sheppard made the arduous journey back to recovery. He'd tried many times to get Ronon to leave so he too could get good rest, but the Satedan refused to budge.

"Ronon," Beckett tried again when he came in at 2 a.m. to check on his patient, "Colonel Sheppard won't be waking up for a while. You should get yourself some rest. You're doing him no good sit--"

"I'm staying."

Carson took the hint and stopped trying to push his advice as he continued his post-operative assessment and recorded the patient's vital signs on his tablet. Ronon watched him closely as he worked. Actually, he watched John closely, sparing the quickest glance toward Beckett and his movements around the bed.

"How long will he be asleep?" Ronon finally asked and Carson looked over at him. His sympathy and compassion showed in his expression and he laid the tablet down on the bed next to Sheppard's legs and came to sit down beside him.

"He's not asleep, Ronon. He's unconscious, " Carson explained and paused before adding. "There's a difference."

Ronon didn't say anything and he didn't have to, his feelings of guilt and helplessness shadowed his angry features and Beckett decided to just talk. Not so much to him, but more or less for him. Perhaps by giving the man some added information it would help him regain some sense of control over the situation as it stood now.

"Colonel Sheppard has sustained a severe concussion," he began slowly and weighed any reaction from Ronon Dex that would indicate he may not wish to know the details. But Ronon simply sat and listened as he stared at the man on the bed. "A concussion, as you know, is caused by a significant trauma to the head. It causes injury and swelling of the brain."

Carson paused as Ronon's eyes moved to look at him. He looked eerily calm and that calm belied the rage in his eyes. Beckett hesitated a moment and, when those emerald green eyes moved slowly back to their original focus, he continued.

"I want you to understand.. . this type of injury may very well involve prolonged and frequent loss of consciousness. He will waken... and then just drift back to sleep. The return of normal brain function can be delayed---"

"Wait. What?" Ronon asked and he seemed to snarl as he regarded Beckett seriously.

"What?" Carson asked a bit intimidated. "Which part?"

"Normal brain function… delayed?"

"Yes. Well, the possibility is quite great considering the injuries he's sustained," Beckett explained.

"Like what?"

"Well, some of the symptoms are headaches, nausea, vomiting, blurred or double vision, confusion, slurred speech, slow motor functioning, loss of short-term memory, perseverating ---"

"What?" Ronon growled at that last word. He hated it when these people used words he'd never heard before.

"It means repeating the same thing over and over again… even though the question had been answered already."

"Oh," Ronon replied, realizing he'd seen that happen before when men suffered severe injury in battle. He always figured it came from a sense of shock or being overwhelmed. He'd never thought it existed due to actual injury to the brain. The fact that nearly all of those men had succumbed to their injuries and died wasn't lost on him either. "Is he gonna die?"

Carson sat up straight, surprised by the straight forward question. He didn't know why that surprised him, though. Ronon had always been a straight forward kind of guy. "I really don't think you need to fret on that, son. Colonel Sheppard is strong and he came through the surgeries with flying colors. His recovery is going to be slow though, I won't lie to ye'… and he's going to need our help... even when he doesn't want it."

"I'm not going anywhere," Ronon stated. It wasn't a reassurance or a promise. It was simply a statement of fact.

Carson clapped his hand on the Satedan's shoulder in support before standing up. "I'll not be going anywhere either. I, and my staff, are here to help too and we'll help you help him."

That first evening, just as the other patients in the nearby ward were being served their suppers on trays, John's eye opened and stared at the ceiling. Ronon looked up from the magazine he was reading and cocked his head slightly then slowly put the book down and stood up. He moved up to the side rail of the bed and looked down at John, trying to assess whether he was awake or not. He'd been doing strange things all day just like this; his eye would open and stare for a bit before closing again. Or he'd ask where he was and Ronon would remind him that he was home, only to be asked the same question again a moment later as if it were for the first time.

As Ronon studied him, John's eye rolled to the side to look at him and that's when Dex realized that he was actually awake this time. "Hey," he greeted and then nervously plucked at the blanket before pulling the covers up a bit with care. "How ya' doing, buddy?" he asked and gave John a small smile.

The hazel eye studied him back, but gave no indication of realization or understanding. Ronon's heart sank wondering if John even remembered him, but he tried not to show his disquiet on that score and offered another smile.

"What happened?" Sheppard asked; his voice rough and ragged. The intubation from surgery had left his throat and vocal cords swollen and raw.

"You were injured," Ronon told him without offering any details.

"Where are we?" John asked, for the fourth time in less than twenty four hours and Ronon had to grit his teeth to fight back emotions every time Sheppard asked the same question again and again.

"We're in Atlantis," he told him, keeping his tone even and informative and fighting the rage that welled up inside him again. "You're gonna be okay," he said, as if trying to convince  
himself of that.

"Okay," John whispered, and the sense of trust that Ronon detected in that single word made his breath catch. He squeezed his friend's arm with a gentle and supportive hand and reached behind him to pull the chair up so he could sit down without leaving Sheppard's side. Ronon's fingers kneaded the flesh around the tubes in John's forearm with a firm, but gentle, touch and a moment later that single hazel eye slowly closed again.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3 Healing pt 2

**Title: The Thousandth Man series - part 3**

**Story Title - Healing, part 2 - Sequel to Captives**

**Author: ltcoljsheppard**

**Summary: Ronon and John's continuing journey back to health.**

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *~

The next morning the sun rose on the Lantean horizon and washed the great city in gold and pinks. The light pouring through the large stained-glass windows played prisms in pools on the marble-like floor. At just past 8 a.m. Dr. Keller entered the room, after having been given the information pass down by Dr. Beckett of anything of interest that happened on his shift.

Jennifer paused at the entry to the post-op recovery section of the infirmary, where Colonel Sheppard had been admitted, and looked at Ronon draped over the side of the bed fast asleep. It'd been two full nights now and one full day since they captives had returned  
home and Ronon hadn't left John's side for more than a couple of minutes at a time… and only when his body demanded it.

When the nursing staff came in to change the bed linens Ronon was right there to carefully shift John around in order to help them get done and get out. His protectiveness was becoming unhealthy, for him more so than for John, and nearing obsessive.

Dr. Keller approached the bed, giving Ronon a wide berth in case he woke with a wild reaction. He'd done that a few times already, waking from a traumatic dream that would cause him to jolt awake. One time he woke abruptly, launching himself from the chair he'd fallen asleep in and drawing his particle gun in an attempt to ward off whatever enemy he'd been dreaming about.

Jennifer had asked him to surrender the weapon so no one would get hurt and, when he quietly refused and re-holstered the pistol, she'd finished her task and left the room to radio security. She'd requested they dispatch a unit to come and retrieve the weapon, and remove it from the infirmary, or remove Ronon with it.

The standoff hadn't lasted long at all, less than a minute really, but it was the longest minute Jennifer could recall in a long time. Lorne had accompanied the two Marines to the infirmary and it was he, with the armed back-up, who assured Ronon that the weapon was not needed here, in the safety of the city and the only people he'd end up harming would be "friendlies" and he knew that was the last thing Ronon wanted. Ronon had stood his ground silently, standing near the foot of John's bed, and simply glared at the men who had come to challenge him.

"Why don't you give me the gun, Ronon.... and I'll post sentries right outside the door. How's that sound?" Lorne had negotiated. When Ronon didn't budge, he added, "Colonel Sheppard is important to us too. He's our CO and our friend, Ronon. We're not going to let anything else happen to him either. Okay?"

Ronon weighed the options and then stepped toward the major unbuckling his holster belt and handed it to him. Major Lorne had kept his promise and stationed two men outside John's section, inside the infirmary, where Ronon could see them. His being unarmed, however, didn't make him any less dangerous and Jennifer kept a distance from him when he was asleep.

She succeeded in checking and recording Sheppard's vitals and medications and adjusted his I.V. drip. She was looking over his monitor readouts before Ronon sensed her presence and finally stirred. He lifted his head from the bed and Jennifer noted that he'd actually had his face resting on John's hand and the plastic hospital bracelet was adhered to his cheek as he sat up. It left a shallow indented strip just below his cheekbone which was immediately hidden by the long rope-like strands of hair he wore like a mop atop his head.

Ronon slumped back in the chair and stared at her with a sleepy gaze before letting his eyes roam around to notice the sunlight filtering into the room. He twisted slightly in his seat to look at the guard unit standing outside the door and noticed they were a different pair than the ones who'd been standing there at 3 a.m.

"It's morning," he growled, his voice still heavy with sleep.

Jennifer gave him a friendly smile. "Again, yes," she said, confirming that their second day back had begun and, after re-attaching the pulse-ox meter to the tip of John's finger, she  
replaced his hand by his side and drew the covers over him securely.

Ronon watched her as she adjusted the strange looking plastic finger cap and Jennifer smiled a bit, remembering the first time Ronon had seen one and thought they were stupid. That is until she'd explained the importance of a pulse-ox sensor to him.

"Pulse oximetry is a non-invasive method of allowing me and my staff to monitor the levels of oxygenation of a patient's hemoglobin. The blood," she'd specified when his brows twisted at the 'goblin' word. "It tells me how much oxygen is actually available and being used productively in his system. Its data is necessary whenever we have a patient whose condition is considered unstable, critical or requires intensive care."

It was often difficult to tell if Ronon was following the information because he rarely reacted to what he was being told, so Jennifer offered one last comment before dropping the lesson.

"If this gives us back a low reading, which is recorded here," she said lifting a readout strip from the monitor, "then that tells me he's not ventilating himself very well... that he needs assistance in maintaining proper oxygen levels. If that is indicated then I will have to put him back on the oxygen. It's very important, especially with a severe head injury that we make absolutely sure his brain is getting sufficient oxygen. Understand?"

Ronon understood and nodded. It was a lesson he didn't forget and through the past two nights he'd checked the readout and re-checked it when it felt to him that the staff was taking too long to come back in.

"How long is he gonna be like this?" Ronon asked her as he scrubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and then dropped his hands heavy on his lap.

Jennifer carefully examined the raw burns around John's mouth and applied a bit of salve to the corners with a cotton-tipped applicator. She tossed the applicator in the trash by her feet under the monitor stand and glanced over at Ronon.

"It'll be a while," she told him empathetically. She then gently placed her hand to John's cheek and turned his face a bit toward her so she could change the bandages and dressing on his head. He'd taken fifteen stitches to close up the gash to his right eye and due to that eye being bandaged; unusable anyway due to the severe swelling, it left Sheppard with only his injured left eye to use on the rare instances when he actually woke up.

Jennifer carefully removed the bandages, exposing Ronon to the healing injuries for the first time. When he'd brought John home, he'd still been wearing the blindfold and gag that were adhered to his face after nearly three days of beatings. He'd always been asked to leave the room prior to this whenever the doctors came in to change John's bandages or tend to other necessities.

One of those necessities was a catheter system which Carson had tried to explain to him the other day and the reasons why it was used, but Ronon still had trouble dealing with it whenever they came in to check it or do anything at all to it. He couldn't imagine such a thing not being harmful, despite how much Beckett assured him it was not painful in the least. In fact it was quite useful in that it allowed relief to the bedridden patient without forcing them out of the bed before they were physically ready. It was also an essential means in helping to keep records of the patient's fluid output, especially after a surgical procedure.

The only part that could be a tad uncomfortable, he was told, was the actual insertion when the patient was awake... "and even that is only a heavy sensation of backward pressure---" At that point, Ronon had growled at him loudly, raising his fists toward the doctor, and Carson realized that the big man really didn't want any details on that particular tube.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

As Dr. Keller tossed the bloodied dressings in a biohazard bin nearby and gently prodded the site with the tips of her fingers. John moaned. She paused in her exam and glanced to Ronon even as he was already vaulting from his chair. He was at John's side in a flash and leaning over the bedrail so that he'd be in sight if Sheppard opened his eyes.

Another soft moan and one eyelid fluttered open and the other fought to open, but the swelling simply got in the way of the attempt. This was the first time Ronon had gotten the chance to see what was under the blindfold and subsequent bandages and he barely succeeded in not pulling a face at the sight.

"Hey, buddy, how ya' doing?" he asked as the grey-green eye found its focus and drifted over to him.

"Ronon," John recognized and Dex crooked a grin.

"Yeah. How ya' feeling?"

"Okay," John answered and then after a pause. "Are you all right?"

Ronon knew that first answer was a bald-faced lie and yet, even in his condition, Sheppard thought first of his friends. Ronon shook his head and exchanged a look with Jennifer.

"I'm fine. Let's worry about you right now, okay?"

"You don't have to worry about me," John told him with a groan. He tried to prove the point by attempting to shift his own weight, but the attempt looked pathetically meager to those watching. He was suffering exhaustion and dehydration and he gasped with a sudden pull of pain.

"Take it easy," Ronon ordered, putting a hand on John's shoulder as if to pin him there. Sheppard winced hard as the attempt had pulled against the stitches in his side and it took a moment for him to catch his breath. "See? Just lie still."

"What is that?" John ground out as his hand came up toward his belly. Dr. Keller caught his hand and held it away so she could pull down the covers a bit to check that he hadn't caused any harm.

"You had surgery," Jennifer told him softly as she gently palpated the area with the open palm of her hand.

"Surgery… for what?" he asked.

"You were ---"

Ronon cut her off as he cleared his throat so loudly that the sound caught Keller of guard and she looked to him with wide eyes. Ronon shook his head at her to indicate that he didn't want John to know what had happened just yet.

"He has the right to know, Ronon," she told him, her soft voice held a stern note to it.

"He doesn't need to know right now," he insisted.

"What do I know?" John asked. His words were confused and slurred, and they watched as the sedatives and pain medications took over again and his eye drifted closed once more.

"Never mind," Ronon told him. "It can wait until you get more rest."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

On the third day, John woke to the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the afternoon meal being served in the infirmary. The scent of the day's offering hit him and woke his tired brain from slumber. His eye opened and he moved it around to get his bearings. He turned his head slightly to the left to see Ronon sitting there looking around as the nurses and orderlies tended to the few other patients in the ward. John watched him for a moment then raised his hand a bit still feeling weak.

Ronon saw the movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head to look at John's hand. His eyes shot to his friend's face to see him looking back at him and he rose from his chair with a grin. "Hey," he greeted quietly. "How're you feeling?"

John blinked and tried to stretch his facial muscles a bit and hissed against the pull of pain. "Hopefully I feel worse than I look," he replied, his voice churned out with a bit of a groan.

Ronon didn't say anything to that and John paused, realizing why that was.

"Pretty bad, huh?" Sheppard asked. Ronon just swallowed and looked down at the bed. "So what happened? Scratch that…" he said as an image of his ordeal flashed in his head. "I remember."

Ronon still hadn't said anything and John looked up at him about to ask what was wrong when Dr. Keller walked into his recovery area.

"Well, look who's awake," she smiled and John offered a bit of a grin back to her.

"Hey, Doc. How's it going?" he ground out through a tight and painful jaw.

"I'm supposed to ask you that," she said with a bright smile as she came up alongside his bed opposite of Ronon. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by rampaging bull."

"Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Well, I'll have the nurse bring in something light for you to work on. I want you to take it easy though. "Okay? Just some soup and maybe some jell-o. How's that sound?" she offered as she inspected the raw wounds on his mouth and looked at his good eye closely. "Do you have a headache or dizziness?"

"A slight headache," he told her.

"Just slight? The meds are working overtime, I'd say," she grinned. "How's your vision?"

"A little blurry, but it clears a bit when I blink," he told her. Ronon continued to stand there looking like a sad puppy and John looked up at him. "Is he okay, Doc?"

Jennifer looked at Ronon and smiled sadly, knowing how he suffered in his own way over what happened to Colonel Sheppard on that planet. "He'll be fine too. I think you both can help each other through this, yes?"

John nodded with a sorrowful expression. What happened wasn't in any way Ronon's fault, but Sheppard knew how dedicated the Satedan was to protecting his friends and teammates. He hadn't been able to do that this time and John felt bad that it was because of Marek that Ronon hurt too.

Dr. Keller finished recording his information in her tablet and left them alone with a nod. "I'll order your lunch and we'll pull back on the IV a bit and see if your stomach can handle some light substance."

When Jennifer returned a few minutes later, the nurse had just arrived and was pushing the table tray over John's bed. He'd been lying in a slightly head-up position due to the pressure of his head injuries but Jennifer moved to his head to see how he would fair while she raised the bed. She pressed the button slowly, watching him closely as his head rose to a vertical position.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply as the sensation made the room tilt. His left hand clutched at the bed rail to steady the sensation.

"You okay, Colonel?" Jennifer asked as they progressed and he nodded. When she had him raised to the minimum height for comfortable eating position she readjusted his pillows and waited for him to open his eye again. "Still okay?" she asked and he nodded, taking a long breath. "Let's start with this. I found your favorite. Orange right?" she asked as she picked up the bowl of jell-o and the spoon. "Okay, real easy now," she told him as she slipped a bit of the cool smooth dessert into his mouth. "Your throat's going to be sore for a bit. It's aggravated and swollen from the intubation tube. I'm sorry," she told him as he swallowed and pulled a pained face.

As Jennifer fed him the jell-o, John took stock of himself silently. The longer he sat there getting his wits about him the more aware he became of his true condition.

"I'm pretty messed up, huh?" he said as Jennifer brought another wiggly glob toward him. She hesitated a moment and then put it to his mouth as he opened for it.

"Yeah. Pretty messed up," she confirmed softly. "We're taking care of it though," she assured him. "You're going to be fine."

"Am I?" he asked and looked at her with one serious eye. The two looked at one another and Jennifer understood what he was asking for.

"Yes, Colonel."

"Because my vision is ---" he began and his words trailed off as a sudden pain in his head made him wince.

"Your vision should get better in time," she assured him. "You have a concussion, John. Your brain is swelled against the inside of your skull and that pressure is causing the visual disturbances and the headache and dizziness. As the pressure recedes so should the effects from it."

John listened and nodded that he understood but he remained subdued.

"I have no intention of pulling your flight status unless absolutely necessary and certainly not until you've made a full and complete recovery… which will take weeks. You shouldn't concern yourself with that just yet."

Sheppard nodded again, feeling a bit better that she wasn't looking to take his wings without intense scrutiny.

"What about him?" he asked, giving a slight nod toward Ronon.

Ronon raised his eyes to see the two of them looking at him. "What?" he asked as if prodded out of his own little daydream.

"You okay, buddy?" John asked.

Ronon looked at him for a long moment and then nodded a bit. He reached out and took John's hand in his and just held it firmly for a bit and Sheppard understood. He felt for his friend and knew that his own injuries would heal long before the wounds in Ronon's heart would.

"I'm okay, ya' know?" John offered.

"No, you're not."

"But I will be. And I don't need anyone else to tell me that I'm here and alive because of you. I already know that," John told him and Ronon clenched his teeth together as his eyes filled with churning emotions. "I'm alive because of you, Ronon. You have no reason to blame yourself for anything else. None of this was your fault. It was mine."

"No it wasn't!" Ronon growled at him.

"I'm the one Marek wanted. I'm the one who carries the gene he despised so much."

"I didn't know where you were," Ronon told him, his voice full of anger and regret.

"I know," John told him.

"I didn't know… what they were doing to you."

"I know."

"I'm sorry," Ronon said and his emotions broke as angry tears flooded down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

John reached up with his good arm and snagged Ronon's arm, pulling his friend toward him. At first Ronon didn't move and then seemed to realize that Sheppard would hurt himself in an attempt to comfort him, so he gave in to the grasping hand. He leaned over and buried his face against John's chest, desperately seeking his forgiveness and trying to be careful in his embrace. Sheppard wrapped his one arm around Ronon's shoulders, holding his friend to him as his hand patted softly at his friend's head. Ronon felt the comfort and security of John's offered forgiveness and he carefully embraced his friend with strong, caring arms.

The two men stayed that way for long minutes as Sheppard gave Ronon comfort. Then he felt the big man relax against him just before the Satedan pulled back slowly so as not to hurt him. Once he was clear of John's embrace, and all the tubes attached to him, Ronon sat down in his chair but stayed attentive and focused on his team leader… his best friend.

John looked at Jennifer as she offered him the last of the jell-o with an affectionate grin and he took it from the spoon. She pointed at the soup on his tray and John shook his head, "I'm good for now. Thanks."

Dr. Keller nodded with a grin, she was more than thrilled that he was able to take the full serving of jell-o his first time so she wasn't going to push. She pulled the tray away from the bed further to keep it out of their way and John shifted a bit on the bed.

"So when do I get to get up?" he asked, giving her a pleading but direct look.

"Ohhhh, not for a while yet," she answered a bit flustered. Why did she expect him to be impatient and yet still managed to be surprised by the question? "I think you should wait another day or two, Colonel."

"Oh c'mon, Doc. I can't stay in this bed much longer," he told her and emphasized his discomfort with a mock grimace and an overplayed stretch of his back. His eyes moved to look at her and she grinned, not buying it.

"Tomorrow. Okay?" she said with finality.

"Okay," he agreed, not that he had much choice in the matter. John sank back into the pillows and sighed.

Jennifer grinned at his response and picked up the tray. "I'll check back in a bit. You stay put," she warned the colonel and he nodded reluctantly.

Once Keller had vacated the immediate area Ronon turned his head to look at John again. John felt the scrutiny and raised his eyes, from staring wearily down at the blanket, to meet his friend's gaze.

"How are you really feeling?" Ronon asked, doubtful.

"Ohhh, I'm okay. I think," John replied hesitantly. He looked to Ronon and waited a beat before continuing. "I have a vague recollection as to what happened," he admitted with a slight shrug. "That man tried to kill me."

"Yeah," Ronon answered, holding John's gaze.

Another beat and then John added quietly, still looking to his friend. "You killed him instead."

Ronon looked at John for two beats, maybe three, before dropping his gaze for a moment.

"Yeah. I did," he admitted and looked up again. He wasn't sorry for what he'd done and he'd do it again without hesitation. "And I'm not sorry," he told Sheppard straight out. His solid reply stopped any further questions on the matter and John simply nodded that he understood and lowered his eyes.

He wasn't all that happy about the fact that his friend had to resort to such actions in order to rescue him. Ronon watched Sheppard sideways for a moment before realizing that the subject was done. That's good, he thought, because no amount of talk would or could change the outcome.

Ronon stayed and visited with him as others came and went. Teyla and Rodney popped by for a few minutes, noting how tired John looked even though he begged them to stay and took their leave shortly after arriving. John napped a bit, dozing off without realizing it and Ronon simply turned visitors away with a signal to be quiet and waved them away to come back another time.

John woke again just after the evening meal had been served to find a food tray cooling on the bedside tray table and Ronon asked if he was hungry. He shook his head no with a blank look in his eyes and Ronon frowned a bit concerned that the concussion was having effects on John's condition and watched as his eyes slowly closed again.

He slept restlessly through the night, apparently worn down from the brief interaction of the afternoon and Ronon continued to watch over him. He was there when John woke up after a bad dream gasping for air in a terror-stricken state and could only imagine the images or sensations his friend was reliving in his sub-conscious. He was by his side though, with a gentle hand on his arm and softly spoken words in the quiet night to comfort his friend's fears.

~* ~* ~* ~ * ~

The next morning, the sun rose bright on the Lantean horizon, as it nearly always did, and Ronon stirred in his chair. Opening his eyes, he looked to the bed to see Sheppard grinning sleepily back at him as if he'd just woken as well.

"Hey," he said as he pushed himself up in the chair and rubbed sleep from his eyes.

John simply watched him as if far away and Ronon shifted forward in the chair to reach out and put his hand on Sheppard's arm.

"Hey, buddy, how're you doing?" Ronon asked again and the two men looked at each other for a minute before Carson walked in and broke the connection.

"Gooood morning! I see we're all awake. Well-rested, I hope, and ready for the day?" he greeted cheerfully with his Scottish brogue lilting the airwaves. Ronon gave him a twisted expression that clearly stated he'd just woken and wasn't quite ready for 'chipper' yet., while John grinned at the doctor seemingly amused by the funny man.

Dr. Beckett smiled down at his patient as he looked over his night records on his chart and double-checked the monitor readings and the intravenous drips that supplied medicines and fluids to the colonel's system. Putting down the notebook he turned to the bed and put his hands on the side rail. He looked at John and then Ronon before asking the patient, "How do you feel about getting out of bed today?"

"Are you sure about that?" Ronon asked. He stood up to face Beckett on the opposite side of the bed and looked down at his battered friend.

"It's been three days, Ronon," Beckett reminded him. "He needs to start getting up some time."

"But it's been only three days," Ronon told him. "He had surgery… and he's not acting like himself."

"How so?" Carson asked, concerned. As he waited for Ronon to explain he leaned over the bed, dropping the rail and checked John closely. He took a peek under the bandage on his head and checked his surgical site for leakage or infection. "Everything looks fine, Ronon. He's doing very well." Carson smiled at Sheppard and John grinned back although his eyes did look a bit glazed as if sedated. "I told you about the head injury, Ronon. His behavior is simply effects from that. There's no need to keep him bed-ridden while he recovers his senses from that."

Carson re-assured the Satedan that it was quite all right for Sheppard to get up and move around and waved to a nurse to bring over a wheelchair. The nurse was a veteran of many years and Ronon vaguely knew her only by Katherine as Beckett had spoken to her a few times within earshot. She was about forty years of age he figured with a kind smile and dark blonde hair. She steered the wheelchair to the foot of the bed and waited for Ronon to step away.

Ronon now stood at the foot of the bed as she maneuvered the chair to the side facing the bed and then stepped up to lower the rail on that side of the bed. Carson raised the head of the bed slowly and watched John as he sat up, stopping the motion only once as Sheppard closed his eyes and gripped the bed sheets with his fingers. Carson took that as an adverse sign and halted the bed's progression to give him a moment to let his head settle before continuing. Once the bed was raised high enough, he put down the controller and moved to the other side to assist Katherine. He waited as she helped John get into a dark blue hospital robe.

Carson pulled the covers aside and folded them somewhat neatly near the foot of the bed and he and the nurse talked to John patiently and quietly as they maneuvered his legs over the side and slowly got him on his feet. Ronon watched with concern as John got to his feet and was forced to pause for long, deep breaths as he was held up protectively by his caregivers.

"Okay," Carson comforted his patient, "You're okay, doing fine. Just take a moment to adjust. I know the sensations are uncomfortable… gravity pulling its weight on the stitches and all, but you're doing fine. A bit of a head rush, yes?" he asked as John's fingers continued to grip their sleeves tightly and he stood there with his eyes squeezed shut tight.

He nodded and swallowed back the urge to retch as his stomach turned over.

"Okay, listen to me, the pair of ya'," he instructed the two friends, but focused on Sheppard as he spoke, "this is just a chance to get your body up and moving so it doesn't decide to atrophy lying in bed. Understand? This is not a test and it is not mandatory at this point," he told both men to be clear.

As they settled him into the chair, Carson told Ronon specifically, "Let him sit up, roll him around a bit, maybe look out the terrace and get some fresh air… but if he can only handle five minutes then bring him back in five minutes. Do not over-tire him."

"I won't," Ronon promised as the nurse draped a blanket over Sheppard's legs to keep him warm on his first sojourn from the safety of the infirmary.

TBC


End file.
